


Soul Of My Soul

by leimmortel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Kind of slow burn but not really, M/M, Made Up Magical Rituals, Made up Spells & Magical Artifacts, Magical Bond, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, POV Harry Potter, POV Tom Riddle, Professor Tom Riddle, Sexual Content, Soul Bond, The Deathly Hallows, War with Grindelwald, pyromancer harry potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 87,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28480539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leimmortel/pseuds/leimmortel
Summary: Past story line: coming back at Wool’s Orphanage at the end of his first year at Hogwarts, Tom meets a 6 years old Harry Potter and an accident leads their magic to tame one to the another; they become close friends but through the years their relationship evolves into something else.Present story line: Tom comes back from his travels as the new DADA teacher in Harry’s sixth year and he has a new obsession – the Deadly Hallows.–––A (coming of age) story about love, fear and self-discovery.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 42
Kudos: 150





	1. (flashbacks) in my end is my beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tomriddlesupremacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomriddlesupremacy/gifts).



_In order to arrive at what you are not_

_You must go through the way in which you are not._

_And what you do not know is the only thing you know_

_And what you own is what you do not own_

_And where you are is where you are not._

**_T.S. ELIOT, “FOUR QUARTETS” PART II: EAST COKER_ **

  
  
  
  


**_SUMMER, 1934_ **

Harry can’t wait any longer. His room, even on a summer day, has never felt this cold, colorless and lonely. He’s afraid the walls could shrink him at any moment: his heart is racing, its beat is resounding fiercely in his ears – he’s restless, his whole body trembling with anticipation. 

Just mere moments ago he had tried to lay on his bed, drawing on his sketchbook to keep his mind busy and at ease, but his hands were shaking so much he had been forced to stand up once more. He then walked up and down his room a few more times before deciding to stop, stepping closer to the window where he is currently still standing to get a proper view of the street, looking at the people passing by while trying to guess where each single person was going, if they were going to be late, where they were coming from and what has brought them there.

He arrived at Wool’s Orphanage last year, on a cold October night, and he doesn’t like it much: the other kids are mean to him because he’s the youngest in the house, they steal his toys when he’s not in his room and they force him do all the chores when Mrs. Cole is not around; sometimes they even hide his sketchbook, forcing him to spend the entire day looking for it. What hurts him the most, though, is when they make fun of his nightmares: there are nights in which he dreams about his parents’ death and he screams so loud and cries so much – he feels as though he’s about to die, too – the other kids have to wake up Mrs. Cole to calm him down; because it is during these nights that his body burns with fever, the lightning scar on his forehead aching to the point he finds himself wishing he could die to make the agonizing pain stop, praying a silent God for his body to be set on fire. But each night turns into daylight, each time he wakes up with his mother’s screams still raging in his ears. Each time he wakes, and each time his eyes are red and swollen; each time he survives, but his body is wrecked and the tears he cried out during the torturous night had left unbearable marks on his skin. 

Yet, there is something telling him Tom will be different from the other kids, like a feeling buried deep within him. He’s probably forcing himself to believe so, and he’s probably mistaking his own fantasies with the reality of things – but he doesn’t know where to draw the line anymore. His memories are bewildered, his mind plays tricks on him as days go by and the events that led him here in the first place begins to gradually eat one another, making him question what little of him has remained. 

He doesn’t know much about Tom, except for his name: he is not liked much by the other kids as they never answered Harry’s questions about what kind of person Tom was; but he had learnt what his feet size is, having found a pair of shoes under his bed while cleaning the room during his first week at the Orphanage, which automatically had brought him to imagine what Tom looked like – he imagined a tall, perhaps shy and introverted kid; smart and intelligent, too, since Mrs. Cole told Harry that Tom spends most months of the year attending a very _special_ and _private_ school somewhere out of London, coming back only during his summer vacations. That was the main reason why they ended up being roommates in the first place, actually, as all the other rooms were already occupied. 

Harry is so lost in his thoughts he barely hears the steps coming from the corridors. He recognizes quickly Mrs. Cole’s: she walks like nothing could jar her, like she leaves room ahead of herself. Yet, he barely has the time to quickly adjust his pants and remove the wrinkles from his shirt, as the door of the room bursts suddenly open.

Mrs. Cole is standing behind a kid, and by the look on her face she must be annoyed, or frustrated, he cannot tell and he doesn’t really care – his attention is fully focused on the older boy standing in front of him, holding a big and heavy trunk with both hands. 

Harry’s cheeks flush as Tom scans him, slowly but uninterested. He’s tall, taller than Harry and probably taller than all kids his age; pale skin meets sharp features, and the area around his obsidian-black eyes is very dark. He seems distressed, not happy to be there – _has the journey back on the train made him that tired?_

He has waited so long for this moment to finally happen, his hands are shaking but his reaction is genuine and spontaneous: he rushes up and awkwardly takes a hold on the boy’s trunk, already trying to win him over by easing him from the burden to have to carry a heavy weight all by himself.

“ _Oh_! Harry, how nice of you,” Mrs. Cole says, smiling sharply while tapping lightly on the back of Tom’s shoulders. “What do we say to such kindness, Tom?”

But Tom doesn’t look relieved. Indisputably, his distress seems to aggravate as a devious and sinister smile suddenly curls his lips. Harry shivers, terror and panic spreading in his chest as though he has been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to do and needed to be punished.

“Give it back,” Tom whispers coldly, taking a single step closer while raising a hand towards him. “ _Now_.”

But Harry is faster and determinate: as Tom steps forward, he steps backwards, forcing the older kid to take another step each time he keeps on drifting away.

“I want to help!” He mutters clumsily before leaving the case on Tom’s bed, not meeting his eyes as he steps away to head towards his own bed. 

He hears Mrs. Cole sighing in the distance, her voice reaching his ears dimly as though she was lost somewhere underwater, and he doesn’t turn his head to look at her leaving the room and closing the door behind her. His eyes are fixated on the other boy, who is looking down at the trunk on his bed: his jaw is clenched sharply, his shoulders are quivering silently and his hands are closed into fits.

“ _Don’t_ ,” He hisses, hatred and despise making his voice inhumanly cold. “Touch my things ever again. Understood?”

Harry gulps, dryly as icy, and unpleasant quivers run down his body from head to toes. He blushes and looks at the single wooden desk separating their beds, too ashamed of himself and scared to look at him – if he does, the world would crush him down completely. 

***

Harry should stop following Tom everywhere and instead try to learn how to avoid him. He should stop going to the back of the garden, where Tom usually read when the other kids weren’t around, hidden by the cherry-tree as though not wanting to be disturbed; he should stop spying on him as he writes his thoughts down on his diary, wondering what kind of ideas or dreams a boy like him could possibly have; he should stop pretending to be asleep at night, just to hear him as he whispers a language Harry has never heard before. He shouldn’t be chasing after dangerous and untouchable things – but he finds himself tormented; Tom inhabits a very different domain than Harry’s, and he finds himself stuck in a vicious cycle revolving around the oldest’s evasive existence. 

Yet, instead of thinking about ending something that never had a future from the start, Harry tries and tries again, each new day, to get the other’s boy attention. 

Today, he decided he was going to try with _mince pie_. 

Harry was currently working in the kitchen with Mrs. Cole, who was lazily stowing away the china as he was cleaning the table they used earlier that morning. He still had some flour on his cheeks and jam on his shirt, but he didn’t mind. He had more important business going on – the pies had to be perfect and he couldn’t leave the kitchen; if he left, he knew the other kids would come around and steal all the food as soon as it was out of the oven. That is why, when the table was finally cleaned as if it was brand new, Harry turned to stare at the oven, all dirty and eager, a determined grin curving the angles of his lips; like a soldier guarding a princess’s palace, ready to fight off the first monster that attempted an invasion. 

He hopes Tom will like the pie. He did read a lot of recipes before finally coming to a final decision. He doesn’t know Tom, but he did spy on him quite a lot over the past few days: he couldn’t know what was going on inside his head, but he knew what food the other boy did and didn’t like. He could guess by the way Tom’s nose crinkled when forced to eat something he didn’t like, the way his lips twisted when he didn’t want to show his joy of eating something he liked to the others – as if scared that, by showing something he liked, the other kids might have tried to steal it away from him. But he doesn’t have to worry, now, as Harry had prepared a full and abundant plate of _mince pies_ just for him. 

When Mrs. Cole informs him that they could finally take the pies out of the oven, he rushes to close the kitchen’s door and grab the potholders on his way back.

“Let me do it, Harry,” She says, trying to grab the potholders from him. 

But Harry is faster. He shakes his head as he brings a chair in front of the over, so that he could easily open it by himself.

“I’ll do it!”, He says softly, trying not to offend Mrs. Cole. Her eyes follow him every step of the way, ready to pounce on the chair before he could break his head by falling out of it. 

He steps on the chair, opening the oven. The steam and vapors coming out from the vent make his glasses fog up, and he coughs with surprise as he jerks his hands to vanish the smoke. Then, as he raises his hands out to grab a hold on the baking tray, Mrs. Cole takes a white and clean plate and lays it on the kitchen table. She was looking at him sceptically, without interfering, as if trying to humor someone who’s been hurt enough already.

The pies look delicious, but they smell even better. Harry smiles triumphantly, giggling cheerful at himself as he steps down from the chair; rushing over to the kitchen table, his heart shooting upward into his throat. After having positioned the still-warm pies on the plate, he pours some milk into a large glass, aiming a straw into it like a dart. Adjusting the glass on the plate, he grabs it tightly.

“Thank you, Mrs. Cole,” he says, smiling broadly. He knows the woman won’t reply, so he simply leaves the kitchen as careful as he can.

On his way to the garden he glimpses at Amy drawing on the patio, while Dennis and Billy are playing cards, enjoying the last hours of full sun. Harry likes to sit on the stairs’ patio and watch the waning day spread itself out into pre-dusk light; he always preferred dusk over dawn because, somehow, these moments could give him a sense of peace and serendipity – if the sun sets every night only to shine brighter the day after, he can too break into thousand little pieces and start all over again.

Harry bows his head, not wanting to be noticed by the other kids, and rushes his way to the garden. He slowly descends stairs, one by one, holding his breath at each step. Surely, after all the effort he’s shown he doesn’t want the plate to fall and break to the ground; so the slower, the better. 

He reaches the back of the garden in a few minutes. As expected, Tom is reading. 

He’s sitting on the grass with a book on his knees, focusing on the pages he is reading and mouthing silently the words out. Harry glimpses at the bags under his eyes, making him look gaunt and restless. 

Contradicting emotions suddenly shakes down his core: something akin to agony and fear, or perhaps anxiety, starts to brim over inside him. Harry tries to push it away, to pacify his mind as he walks closer towards Tom, trying to visualize more serene and placid emotions to disguise his agitation with. 

When he reaches the tree, he comes to stand in front of the older boy. He patiently waits for him to raise his eyes and welcome his presence – but Tom continues reading, undisturbed and apathetic, perhaps to show Harry his mind is very focused on the page. He frowns as his anxiety spreads all over him, feeling they’re light-years away. 

Frustrated, and perhaps annoyed, the youngest stamps his left foot to the ground, detesting to feel so invisible and callow; when any kind of response comes, he’s able to find enough courage for an extremely shy kid to call his name out with pure rage, “ _Tom!_ ”

Finally, as Tom lifts his eyes from his book and stares Harry straight in the face, his heart leaps, making him feel terribly uneasy. 

“These are for _you_ ,” He says, softening the tone of his voice as he looks down at the plate in his hands. “I made it.”

He bites his lips before raising his head to search for the other’s boy reaction, suddenly scared of his disparagement. But what he sees when he looks up once more, leaves him breathless – Tom is staring at him with his eyes wide open, lips hatched, and a light red flush on his high-pale cheeks. 

“You made it?”, He asks, startled. 

“Of course I did!” Harry taunts back, sounding incredulous, as though to question how he could ever have not believed such a thing. “Now try it.”

Tom looks as though the world has slapped him in the face and is now caressing him generously. He slowly closes the book, still hesitant, and he settles it on the grass to free his hands. Then, finally, he grabs a hold on the plate Harry is holding.

Harry relaxes his fingers; his hands are sweaty. He waits for Tom to eat, pinioned to the ground in a state of both terror and anticipation: not a fire of happiness, because he knew better than chanting victory too soon; he feels paralyzed, as if someone was sucking up the oxygen around them. 

Tom must be as paralyzed as him: he’s holding a micepie between his left fingers and he is looking at it with a mixture of disorientation and curiosity. 

“I haven’t poisoned it,” Harry mutters shyly, sitting on the ground in front of the other kid. “You can relax.”

He hoped that by saying so he could help Tom relax for real, but he obtained an unexpected reaction: Tom flushed, _again_. Not a deep red flush, the kind of flush Harry turns into when embarrassed – his cheeks were flushed with a more delicate rosy-pink, his eyes glistened with awkwardness.

Harry’s eyes widen in wonder. 

When Tom finally decides to take a bite of the pie, his heart starts to clog and beat so fast he thought it was soon going to spit out his chest; a fever starts to spread through his body, a sensation of dread running down his spine as if he could faint at any moment. 

He’s too scared to look away. He’s too scared to awake from a dream if he tries to stop staring at the other’s boy face as he eats – but perhaps this was a dream. Perhaps this was only happening in his head and he would soon wake; he would soon realize none of this has ever happened. 

A soft hum makes his lips twitch. 

Tom was looking at him. He was eating a _second_ pie. 

_He likes it_ . _He likes it and he’s not going to say it out loud._

Harry smiles. 

It wasn’t a dream, everything was really happening. 

“What book are you reading?” He tries to ask calmly, using the smoothness of the situation to further try to breach Tom’s life. 

Tom seems to think about his answer as he continues eating, glancing quickly on the book resting on the grass before raising his eyes up to Harry’s face once more. 

He cleans his lips from crumbs with the back of his hand, swallowing carefully.

“It’s for school.”

Harry nods twice, humming pensively. He crosses his legs, then his arms on his chest.

“Do you have homework to do?”

Tom doesn’t reply immediately, again, taking his time to consider his next answer. Harry frowns. Is he asking too complicated questions? 

“Sort of.”

“Do you have to draw? I could help you if you do, I like drawing.”

Then, to his surprise, Tom chuckles as if to mock him. But Harry bites his bottom lip, deciding not to pay too much attention to his attempt at scorning him. Indeed, Tom was older and had all reasons to think of him as a little child, perhaps a little child too curious to mind his own business – but he doesn’t care, he has a purpose and he is going to fulfill it. He wants Tom to be his friend.

“No, I don’t have to draw,” Tom answers before drinking some milk; and to him, the fact he’s still holding the pies’ plate in his hands counts like a little victory.

“You just have to read, then?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” He mumbles, narrowing his eyes. Then, as to avoid the fall of silence between them, he asks again: “What is it about? The book.”

Tom mimics the face of someone trying very hard, but failing, to smother a grimace of amusement. He’s making fun of him, he knows; but as long as he kept on answering, Harry could carry it off. Otherwise, he doesn’t know if he could bear the silence – anything, even the most embarrassing nonsense or the dullest of questions, is far better than silence. 

“It’s about magic,” He answers, his voice barely a low whisper. 

And Harry knows he’s probably just making a fool out of him – it could have worked, if only the matter of _magic_ wasn’t brought up. 

He quickly shuts his eyes as he feels a sense of gloom starting to give his features something bordering on discomfort and outrage. He doesn’t know the way the other boy is looking down at him; he can’t afford to open his eyes, the hurt in his emerald irids would expose him too much – it would expose him even more than his lack of ability to overcome his struggles and emotions in front of others.

“Can you do magic?” Harry asks hoarsely as he timidly, slowly opens his eyes. 

Tom is looking at him, sceptical; his left brow is raised, and his eyes are narrowed, as though debating to believe him or not.

“Can you?”

Harry nods once, then frowns painfully and shakes his head twice. He looks away as an avoidance offensive, shooting a nervous glance to the other boy from time to time.

“I could. Once,” he says briefly, hoping the oldest wouldn’t catch the unease and shakiness in his voice. “But not anymore.”

But Tom doesn’t look to be playing anymore: his eyes widen and his jaw stiffs, the pies’ plate goes resting on the ground near the book as he frees his hands to cross his arms on his chest, mimicking Harry’s position. 

“What do you mean with _once_?” He scorns, half-frustrated and half-exasperated, as he shakes his head with disapproval. 

_He doesn’t believe him_.

Harry holds his breath as he closes his hands into fists. 

_What could he do?_ He was genuinely afraid of what could happen if he tried to explain to Tom the situation he found himself in earlier that year – not to mention the pain and agony he would go through if he brought up his parents’ death. 

“I can’t do it anymore,” He decides to say, bowing his head as his eyes sparkle with tears.

Was Tom going to laugh at him, tell everyone and make fun of him with the other kids? Or was he going to start ignoring Harry once again, forgetting about the whole thing on the pretext Harry was a stupid child who didn’t know what he was talking about? Does Harry wish him to forget? Or does he wish for him to keep on wondering, keep on asking? Keep on talking to him?

To his surprise, Tom doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even stand up and walk away; he just sits there, caressing his chin in a pensive motion. 

“Probably because your magic is still uncontrolled,” He says. 

He was about to answer, now breathing deeply, when a realization suddenly hits him: Tom was a wizard, too. He knew too well about what he was talking about.

Harry remembers his parents telling him about magic when he was just a child: he doesn’t remember much about his early childhood; but the few things he remembers, he remembers them well and clearly. His mother always told him he was going to become a strong and powerful wizard, if only he learnt to properly master and control his magic. 

Then, as he was about to speak once again, finally finding the courage to answer him, another sudden realization occurred to him.

He makes a sound of both interest and excitement; the icy that flooded the pit of his stomach was now extinguishing as something warm and pleasant was flaring inside him.

“Is _Hogwarts_ the special school you go to?” He asks, beaming at him, in an almost awestruck voice.

Tom raises his eyebrows, his mouth half-open, clearly stunned and at a loss for anything to say. He glances down at Harry’s scar before answering him. 

“You know about Hogwarts,” He says, rather breathlessly, as though trying to do his best to keep his voice even.

“My parents studied there,” Harry whispers, not wanting his voice to turn bitter and hard; he sits bold upright, his hands clenched upon his forearms. “But I don’t know much about it. They said one day I could have gone, too, because it’s the only school where wizards can learn about magic.”

Tom’s expression is lenient: a twist of jealousy and bewilderment. 

For a moment, Harry thinks he’s going to ask him more questions, and he would answer as many of them as possible. But the thought vanishes as he sees the other boy standing up, without meeting Harry’s uncertain eyes. 

Harry rushes to stand up too, but Tom is faster. 

As Tom steps away, heading to the house, Harry realizes two things.

The first: Tom was comfortable being alone; he was heedlessly comfortable being alone and this should have been for Harry a thorough alert. But all he could possibly think about was how on earth could a _kid_ be so comfortable being alone, wanting no one to talk to, no one to be around with – what was he _scared_ of? 

The second: nothing Tom said or did was unpremeditated. He had the ability to see and read through everybody, to rummage and dig out the precise and configuration of their personality, their deepest thoughts and emotions; but not because what he saw in others, he saw in himself – no, rather it was the exact opposite; what he saw in others, he didn’t see nor found in himself, or wished not to see in himself. 

***

Days have passed. Alongside the fact he wasn’t sleeping well, constantly having nightmares – mainly about his parents, a young witch with long obsidian-like hair, a violent green spark, a man with red freckles, then a sequence of _screams_ , howls, malevolent and ugly laughs that made the scar on his forehead to prickle, grey clouds of magic surrounding him, some people he didn’t know mourning – that caused him to doze off somewhere during the mid of the day, Tom was paying to him no attention whatsoever.

Even though they shared a room together, Tom was avoiding him: in the morning he always woke earlier, leaving the room before the youngest could even blink his eyes open; at lunch he sat far away from him, preferring to eat next Mrs. Cole instead, not once glimpsing in Harry’s direction; in the afternoon, no matter how hard he tried, Tom kept leaving the room where he was reading as soon as Harry entered it. 

Harry was going to feel sick. Couldn’t Tom notice the hurt in his eyes as he followed him with his gaze each time the oldest left a room? Couldn’t Tom sense that at night, when turning his back to Harry while sleeping, facing the wall as though to prevent him from seeing his face, Harry’s inability to relax was making it for him hard to breathe? Didn’t he know Harry was incapable of resting and sleeping and would never, ever, no matter what he did or said to him, no matter how hard it’d be nor how much he’d struggle, give up on him? 

He awoke from his nap as abruptly as if somebody had yelled in his ears. It takes him a few moments to remember where he fell asleep, merely a hour ago: he was resting under the cherry-tree in the back of the garden, the sky above was colorless and bright; in the background, coming from somewhere inside the house, he could even hear the muffled crackle of the vinyl on perpetual replay.

As he lays immobile, gazing at the clouds passing through the sky, he searches his brain for a way he might be able to talk to Tom, unable to bear the way their last discussion has ended – perhaps he hoped the oldest could tell him there was nothing wrong with him, nor with his magic, that he was no less magical than any other young wizards his age. But Harry knew better, he knew his magic meant trouble, he knew his magic was different, out of the ordinary – it even felt different, _abnormal_. 

He sighs, apologetically. 

His mother’s words gently echo his mind – _for those who love, Harry, nothing is impossible._

Moved by a warm wave of determination, he crawls on the grass and moves his hands to search for his glasses, finding them a short distance away from where he was resting. 

He puts them on and stands up, clumsy, on his feet. He’s about to head inside the house when, suddenly, Tom steps down the stairs of the back-porch; he looks _furious_.

He is desperate to catch his eye, but Tom is not looking his way; he didn’t even notice he was there in first place – behind him, Billie and the other boys are rushing to catch up.

“Riddle!” Billie yells, pushing Tom’s shoulders with a thrust so strong Harry is surprised to see Tom not falling on the ground. “You _freak_!”

Harry feels as though a brick has dropped into his stomach when Tom turns around to face the other kid, as tall as him; he seems on the verge to speak, but Billie strikes a punch right on his left cheek. 

He gasps, shallowing hard and slowly, mouth suddenly dry. Something familiar starts to run through his veins: his blood starts to feel warmer, his heart is thumping loudly in his ribs, constricting the air passages; his hands are shaking, his knees trembling terribly. He feels winded, as if the ground was vanishing from beneath his feet. 

Before he knew it, he began to walk in their direction; his feet were hitting the ground so hard that his knees buckled with each step. Noticing that Billie was going to strike another punch at Tom, he turned the last few steps a run.

“Leave him alone!” He snaps, loudly and angrily, before pushing Billie away with the back of his hands, now clenched into fists. His whole body is shaking and his shoulders are vibrating with energy – with _magic_ – his scar is burning like it could burst open. But no one seems to notice. No one but him – and Tom, who’s now looking down at him with a twist of surprise and anger. 

As Billie opens his eyes wide in anger, Harry feels an unbidden and terrifyingly, strong power rising within him; a wave of rage shaking him so deep he thinks, just for a moment, he could strike and crash him, hurt him, make him feel some part of the anger and dread inside he himself is feeling.

“ _You_ should leave him alone, Harry,” Billie says, taking a hold of Harry’s shirt to pull him closer and spit the words directly against his face as he speaks, with both aggression and fear in his voice: “He’s arrogant and evil. He’s a _frea—_ ”

But Harry doesn’t let him finish; his magic bursts out of him, smooth and untamed, apologetically, ferocious. 

“I said, _Leave him alone!_ ” He yells once more, closing his eyes as a golden, warm dusty ochre wind rises around them; a conjured, flame-like summoned wind. A wind so strong and vibrant that causes Billie to fly away, bringing his body to fall in between the branches of the cherry-tree meters and meters away from where they are standing. 

As Harry blinks, he sees Tom standing in front of him, looking extremely amazed; he’s holding his hands out, as if to calm a very angry animal, but Harry can’t hear what he’s saying – his right cheek is starting to bruise. The other kids must have run back into the house, and Billie’s cries reach his ears so dimly and blurry, he thinks, for a second, that he became deaf. But when he looks down on his own body, he understands the reason why he can’t hear the sounds around him: the wind he has previously summoned is now surrounding him, engulfing him whole, creating a vigorous and veracious bubble around him, protecting him from the outside but making his body burn and twist in agony. 

He clutches his head in his hands while his eyes roll up; his chest is heaving, making him pant, an overwhelming sensation is travelling deep within his skin. 

Tom is still looking at him, gradually taking slow steps towards him, heedfully; he wants to cry out a warning, to tell him to step away, begging him to not come any closer, but he is having serious difficulties breathing.

_The fear is blinding him…_

“Harry?”

Harry chokes; his breath coming in searing gasps, his eyes streaming, every part of him screaming for release.

“ **_HARRY_ **!”

Suddenly, as his lungs fill with warm air, as the pain starts to disappear, as quickly as it all started, it ends. Harry blinks once, then twice; his glasses are gone off his face and his head is hurting in pure agony, his skull threatening to burst open, shivering as though resting upon ice. He looks down at his hands – he was blind to how it happened, but Tom was clenching Harry’s wrists between his fingers. He doesn’t open his mouth to speak, he doesn’t even try to; his mind was blank, his legs were shaking so violently he could not stand up on his own.

Tom is breathing deeply, apparently beside himself with amazement, inches away from his face. 

He feels the world starting to revolve around him, scared that his body could tear open – he feels himself shaking from head to toes, suddenly dizzy and nauseous; his field of vision gradually blacking-out. Before he has the time do anything about it, he loses his muscle control and his knees fail him to keep him balanced; he is going to fall–

But Tom catches him in the throb of a heartbeat.

“I got you,” He breathes out, holding him tightly against his chest, in the warm embrace of his arms, preventing his own body from falling helplessly on the ground. “I got you.”

Harry’s heart is racing, but somehow softly; it is a pleasant sensation, he decides, feeling the weight in his stomach and his heart to lessen as he holds Tom’s shoulders and hides his own face in his chest, inhaling deeply his ink-like scent. 

_It feels like coming home,_ he thinks, before closing his eyes as he passes out.

***

After the _wind-accident_ – as Tom loves to call it – they became closer as days passed, almost inseparable from one another. 

He’s always felt sidelined, out of context; even when his parents were still alive, because of his extremely powerful magic, he has always felt _wrong_. As soon as he arrived at the Orphanage things got worse: he started to believe people didn’t care about him, and even though he knew it wasn’t Mrs. Cole’s fault, since she had way too many kids to look after, he always felt neglected, bewitched by a sense of inadequacy. He wondered if it was his fault, if he deserved what life gave him, if he deserved to be ignored or mistreated by the other kids for what he has always been. 

Then, Tom became his friend and he clung on him like a lifeline.

Harry doesn’t remember the sequence of events that occurred after that, but everything, even the littlest of things, was now different: the morning chores after breakfast, Harry cleaning the kitchen’s table while Tom was washing their glasses and plates; the hours before lunch spent in their room, Harry drawing on the floor while Tom would read in his bed, sometimes glancing silently in his direction; sitting together at lunch, sometimes being able to eat alone outside, hidden by the cherry-tree; the afternoons, lush with abundant sun and quietenes, spent laying on the grass of the backward surrounded by old and dusty books about magic; sometimes Tom would tell Harry what his first year at Hogwarts had been like, he would explain to him what subjects he studied, what rules the school has, what his favorite places where. 

There were also other scenarios: the silences at night, broken only by Harry’s screams in his sleep and Tom’s gentle whispers attempting to calm him down, his hands stroking the youngest’s head, pushing back the hair covering his forehead while caressing the scar with his cold and thin fingers; Harry napping on Tom’s bed after lunch while Tom was reading one of his books to him, voice chanting, as though lulling him to sleep. And then, again, others, more rare and perhaps more occasional: holding hands while heading to church on Sundays, with the other kids looking at them sceptically; the stormy evening spent sitting on their beds, listening to the raindrops and the hail pelting every window in the house – sometimes the light would go out, and all they had were each other’s faces, trapped in their own little world. 

Harry found himself learning about every secret in Tom’s heart. 

“Why can’t you do magic outside of school?”

He asks one day, while they were resting halfway through the afternoon under the cherry-tree. Tom’s back was resting against the tree’s trunk, unlike Harry who was lying with his back flat on the grass; his dark hair were coiffed, except for a single curl falling down his forehead. He turns his head to look down at Harry.

“Because I’m too young.”

“But what if you have to? Like, to protect yourself?”

“I can’t.”

“That’s _stupid_ ,” He declares stubbornly, causing the other boy to giggle. 

It was in moments like these, where he could find hope even in the darkest of times, that the thud of his heart both terrified and thrilled him. He was constantly in an overwrought state of both anxiety and excitement: the sweet agony spreading through him each time Tom looked at him, the thunderous ache each time he didn’t; he was afraid when Tom was away and frightened when the distance separating them was so much he felt as though it flecked his soul with a shadow he could never wash. 

Harry shifts on the grass, turning on his belly and raising his head to meet Tom’s eyes, still staring down at him.

“You can’t show me your magic, then?” He asks, pouting childishly. 

Tom shakes his head bluntly, looking away for just a moment. Then he hums, pensive but contented, as though he just solved a puzzle. 

He looks down at him once more, closing the book on his lap.

“But I could show you something,” He whispers, voice as smooth as silk, tilting his head to the side as he asks, tempting: “Would you want me to?”

Harry’s eyes widen in wonder behind his glasses. He vehemently nods a few times and Tom smirks amusedly in response; a moment later, the oldest starts to speak in a language he can’t understand. 

For the record, it doesn’t sound anything akin to a human language; it is more like a _hissing_ noise. 

Tom is looking at him while _hissing_ , sibilating some incomprehensible words between his teeth. He is about to ask him what he is doing, when he suddenly, something starts to slither on his legs, moving further on his back.

He shivers as he slowly turns his head, meeting the golden eyes of a snake. Its reddish-brown scales sparkles under the summer’s sun, his body slim and sneaky, slippery. 

Harry is astonished. He doesn’t know how nor why he is not scared – he does feel his body tensed and agitated, but he’s not afraid. He’s curious. He’s eager, _amazed_. 

“Hello,” He whispers in a low voice, smiling and tilting his head to mirror the snake’s head motions. “Are you comfortable?”

He hears Tom gasping quietly, perhaps not expecting his calm reaction in having a medium-sized garden snake casually cuddling on his back. He expects Tom to say something, to explain to him what just happened, if he did this, perhaps he could _talk to snakes_ , and how incredible and extraordinary that would be – but Tom doesn’t speak. Instead, he hisses something in the snake’s direction. 

The snakes must have enjoyed what the other boy has said, because it moves slowly on Harry’s body, coming to rest his head on his nape, making him giggle from tickling. For just a moment, he swore he heard the snake _hissing_ _back_ at Tom. 

“She is,” Tom says to him, speaking English again. “She said she likes your body, it’s warm.”

At that, Harry raises his eyebrows. His mouth and eyes are wide open.

“You can talk to _snakes_?” He asks, thunderstruck, before pushing both palms of his hands against his mouth. 

Tom nods once and narrows his eyes, clenching his jaw when looking down at him as though he was examining his reaction – was he _scared_ of his reaction? 

But Harry rushes to speak once more, laughing with genuine joy. 

“That’s so _cool_!” He breathes out, before turning his gate at the snake, too curious to stop his rant of questions. “And they can talk to you? All of them? Any kind of snake? I didn’t know wizards could do that!”

Tom seems amused: he’s grinning, pleased by Harry’s reaction; he crosses his arms on his chest, elevating his chin with pride and satisfaction. 

“Apparently, not all wizards can,” He utters, rich and mellow, broadening his grin even more. 

Harry rolls his eyes, snorting compassionately at his ego. As a reaction, Tom looks as though he’s about to complain – but he anticipates him, interrupting whatever he was going to say. The snake shifts away from his hair, finding its home under his body, hiding in between his belly and chest. 

“Can you ask her if I can _pet_ her?” 

Tom scoffs briefly before hissing once more at the snake, not looking down on Harry, rather twisting his head to the side. 

“You can.”

And Harry does, chuckling softly as he presses his fingertips down on the snake’s scales, gently caressing _her_ body. He laughs tenderly when _she_ lays her head closer, openly enjoying the young kid’s attention.

When Tom’s voice reaches him out again, Harry looks up at him, finding his gaze still on the side, staring at the horizon.

“I should tell Dumbledore about you.”

Harry tilts his head to the side, confused. His voice sounds concerned, heavier, as though being scattered by a knife. 

_Dumbledore_ – it somehow sounds familiar.

“Who’s Dumbledore?” He asks, still caressing the snake’s body but not looking away from Tom’s features. 

“One of my professors,” Tom answers, finally turning his gaze on him; perhaps, he thinks, by the tiny hint of sarcasm coloring his voice, he doesn’t like the man too much. “He should know about you—it’s too dangerous for you to stay here on your own when I’ll be back at Hogwarts.”

Harry hums unsure, feeling a light sense of anxiety starting to rise within him: he doesn’t understand what that means – but he knew Dumbledore’s name. His parents never talked about their work, all he knew is that there were times where both his mother and father left for a few days and he was staying with his dad’s friends. He doesn’t remember much of what happened before his parents’ death. When Mrs. Cole called a doctor, on the first day he arrived at the Orphanage, he said Harry’s loss of his past memories could have been some kind of coping mechanism. 

He doesn’t know what a _coping mechanism_ is; but it was strange, rather, because he remembers his parents. He remembers everything that happened on the night of their attack, when some _dark wizards_ entered their house and tried to kill him, it was imprinted in his mind but he doesn’t seem able to connect all of the dots together. 

“Harry?”

He blinks. He’s been staring numbly on the ground. 

He blinks again, noticing that the snake had disappeared and that Tom was looking down at him, genuinely confused and perhaps concerned, too. 

“Do you think he knew my parents?” He asks, trying not to sound too startled.

“You said your parents were killed by dark wizards.”

Harry nods. Tom frowns, contemptuously; the way he articulates his gestures is candid, like watching a child thinking gravely on simple matters.

“Do you know that the Wizard’s World is at War?”

Harry gulps, clapping his hands to his mouth in horror, prompting Tom to sigh dramatically.

“I guess you don’t. Come here,” He says silkily, moving his hand as though to invite him to come closer. “I’ll tell you.”

Harry does, his stomach lurching as he crawls awkwardly on the grass. 

He sits with his legs crossed right before the other boy. Tom leans further down with his shoulders, trying to reach his height before starting to whisper, slowly. 

“There is a Dark Wizard, his name is Gellert Grindelwald. The wizards that killed your parents could have been his followers,” He says in a low, serious voice, looking intently on Harry’s face as though to catch his reactions. “There’s been a war, the Global Wizarding War, for over _twenty years_.”

The anger that started to rise in Harry suddenly disappeared, leaving place to sudden anxiety and terror.

“But—but _why_?” He asks, worried. “Why a war?”

“Because of power, Harry. Wars are always fought for power.”

Something like pain was making his chest ache. As he looks up at Tom, still leaning with his shoulders down, he can see it as clearly as he ever has at the back of his mind: a blinding, brutal flash of green light, followed by what seemed a cold and cruel laugh. 

“I don’t understand,” He whispers quietly, frowning.

Tom was looking at him with concern blazing in his eyes. 

He doesn’t know _why_ or _when_ exactly Tom started to treat him differently, ever since the wind-accident: it seemed he got _attached_ to him as though Harry was something of _his._ Tom worried for him, and he wasn’t trying to hide it nor to disguise it with something else – for the first time since Harry has met him, he was transparent about what he felt. 

His hand poses on his nape, ruffling slowly Harry’s wild hair. 

“Few years ago,” Tom speaks again, his voice barely a whisper. “Grindelwald started to look for followers, for people who believed the exact same things he himself believed in. And he got them: some really believed him, others were perhaps scared, and some just wanted a bit of his power, too.”

“What does he believe?”

Tom sighs theatrically once more, as though he was enjoying having enough knowledge to explain things as they were, shrugging before explaining: “Things Dark Wizards believe in, probably. At Hogwarts we never talk about the war, no one ever explained anything to us students – not even the _papers_ explain much.”

Harry hums, tormented. He alertly stares at Tom, who doesn’t seem to be as worried as him – perhaps he doesn’t look stunned because the magic world was still new to him, or because this war in the Wizarding World couldn’t possibly affect the _Muggle_ _World_ and Hogwarts must have felt like a safe place to be in during such tense times.

“Do you think—” He gulps, his voice heavy with sorrows as though the world just weighed down upon his shoulders. “Do you think my parents were fighting against Grindelwald?”

Tom’s gaze turns suddenly cautious, reaching out for Harry’s eyes as openly and transparently as he only was when they were alone.

“Probably, yes. They could have been,” He says, every muscle in his face turning taut. There is something solemn sparkling in his eyes, a stunning truth his face could not hide. 

“I’ll ask Dumbledore. And then we’ll decide what to do.”

Harry flushes as he looks up at him, aghast; his eyes alive behind his glasses and his lips trembling.

“We?”

Tom’s usually bloodless face flushes too, seriousness draining out of him to be replaced with awkward amusement; his lips barely twist in a grin as he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth: “Yes, we. _Us_.”

“Do you think he could make me stay with you?”

He asks again, stubbornly. 

Tom’s features aren’t stiff as he lays his back against the tree’s trunk once more, closing his obsidian eyes in the hope of retaining some of his detached discretion. 

“At Hogwarts? That’s not possible.”

“But—”

But Tom cuts him off quickly, shaking his head firmly as he says, in a hushed but resolute voice, “We’ll find a way. Don’t worry.”

His thin lips then curl in a hint of a smile, a hopefully reassuring smile; he opens his eyes to stare down at Harry, tenderly. 

And he believes him, he decides willingly to believe him; he smiles back as two new feelings spread through his chest, tearing every emotion out of him to prove things he is yet too young to fully comprehend: belonging and fear, the legacy of existence – with the joy of finally know to belong somewhere, with someone, naturally comes the fear of losing such certainties; as though having a safe place, a person who to trust and to be vulnerable with, someone who could understand you, was one of life’s greatest threats. 

  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  


**_SUMMER, 1935_ **

  
  


A year has passed since Harry had been adopted by Sirius, who also ended up with full legal custody of Tom. 

Learning to think of Grimmauld Place as his new home had been difficult: it brought back to him some memories of his early childhood years, as there were rooms in the big and ancient house that felt somehow very familiar to him. Harry asked Sirius about the times his parents were used to leaving him at Grimmauld Place under his Godfather’s supervision; it had happened once every few weeks, according to Sirius, back in the early years of the war. One explanation brought another and another more, allowing Harry to connect all the dots together as much as gradually filling his willingly forgotten and buried memories. 

Sirius was a brave, caring and witty young man: his ability to empathize with Harry’s thoughts and emotions has made Harry feel exposed at first, only to later find himself experiencing pure and genuine joy in having someone who cared for him so much he felt as though he could tell him everything that was going on in his mind. _You can always talk to me_ , he told Harry many and many times more, about _the things you feel; I know what it feels like to be left alone with your thoughts,_ as though he wanted to devotedly heal Harry from his painful memories, as though wanting to take Harry’s burdens and make them his. 

There were also times Sirius turned into a reckless, erratic and ingenious immature man – but where he lacked, Remus filled. 

Remus’s heart and manners were so pure Harry couldn’t believe the man was even _real_ . No matter how grave the situation was, Remus was always compassionate, tolerant and kind; his peaceful words could calm down Harry’s most stressful and anxious behavior. He seemed to have Tom’s same uncanny ability to guess the thoughts of those around him: but unlike Tom, his intuitions came out from the deepest of his emphatic nature. Perhaps his perceptive nature had its roots in his _lycanthropy_ , given how wolves are naturally as intuitive as astute. 

Harry loved to sit through dinner and hear stories about their Hogwarts’ years, he loved to learn about the _Marauders’_ adventures – as his father and Sirius loved to call them, whereas his mother preferred the term _disasters_ – he loved to ask them about his parents’ love story, how did they meet, why and how his mother disliked his father at first, but eventually came to see good things he, according to Remus, didn’t even see in himself. 

_It’s very difficult to explain since there is no exact rule for it, Harry. But sometimes the ones we love help us see things hidden within ourselves we can’t alone see_ , Remus explained the night before Tom was going to get back from Hogwarts, as they were all sitting in the living room; Harry was laying on the sofa with his head on Remus’s lap while he was reading a story about a maiden and a wizard with no heart, and his legs were resting on Sirius’s knees, who was massaging slowly Harry’s ankles. _They make us better, better than we alone could possibly ever be,_ he said, while gently ruffling Harry’s natural messy hair. 

Later, in his bed, he thought of Tom.

_They make us better_.

He cried. He smiled.

_They make us better_.

He slept. He dreamed.

***

Sirius and Harry were waiting just outside the main entrance of King’s Cross Station. The sky was such a transparent band of blue it was almost impossible to look at it, the sun’s luminosity was unbearable for the eyes. 

Harry was so excited and nervous that morning he woke up at six o’clock, unable to go back to sleep. _Go get him_ , Remus told him, smiling down at him as though he knew everything, even the things he himself didn’t know.

But as his eyes now meet Tom’s features, walking in the distance, he thinks he understands what Remus meant – _go get him_ , meaning, _bring him home_. 

Tom has always been tall and handsome for his age – but now, as he was walks towards them with a slow pace, wearing a plain white shirt with a black blazer that matched his black trousers, he looks even more handsome: his face thin, his jaw as sharp as ever, his ebony hair kept in perfect order; he seems to have grown several more inches during their months apart, making him more gangly looking than ever.

He is walking stiffly, with such composure and self-consciousness, while turning his head around all sides and directions to look for Harry and Sirius. Harry doesn’t know if he was naturally impeccable in everything he did or if he made himself look like a perfectionist person by the mere sheer strength of his own will. The oldest was naturally brilliant, cunning as much as wise – but sometimes his controlled features looked almost inhuman and coerced, even though they were camouflaged with such beauty they almost seemed authentic. 

When Tom’s eyes finally find Harry’s for the first time after a year and as his lips curl in a lovely, keen and fierce grin, he stops just a few steps from where Harry and Sirius were standing to open his arms in an invitation directly aimed at the youngest, making his cheeks bloom deep-red. Harry, in spise of himself, rushes and runs towards him; the sound of his own beating heart echoing in his ears. Once he has reached him, he wraps his own arms around his upper torso, squeezing him as tightly as he can. 

Even though Harry has closed his eyes, he can feel Tom’s arms closing around him like a warm blanket, at the exact same time his flushed face pressed against his chest.

He doesn’t want anything else – he thinks as he holds the oldest’s shirt in between his fists to feel him closer, to not let go of him, _not yet_ – but for Tom to be with him always, for his embraces to be what makes life livable; he doesn’t want anything more than to hide himself, to forget about the rest of the world and lose himself in his arms.

How could Dumbledore have dared to think that Harry – as he tried last year to convince him to let go of Tom, to leave him behind and to meet him once he would have started his Hogwarts’ years, too, to go live with Sirius and forget about him, or perhaps visit him sometime during summer – couldn’t want Tom’s living soul to be with him always and forever, gently and softly against his own. Everything conspired to bring them, the most dissimilar beings that ever walked on earth, together. Even their magic has bonded, taming them together, making their friendship stronger than either of them could ever have wanted it to be, better than their souls alone. 

  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  


**_SUMMER, 1938_ **

Harry is impatient, restless; eager to have his own wand. He reads the inscription in peeling gold letters on the front door, _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 b.c.,_ and he can’t hold back a greedy, hungry cry as he jerks one of the sleeves of Tom’s robe, asking him silently to hurry.

A bell rings somewhere deep in the room as Tom and Harry step inside. 

The shop is quite little, dusty and empty. He gulps with some difficulty, trying not to drown in all the overwhelming emotions rising inside him. As he walks to the center of the room, he feels as though he’s stepping into the depths of some ancient magic’s secrets – every nerve exposed, every emotion bruising his heart. 

“Good morning,” Says a soft and quiet voice, making Harry gasps and jerks in surprise as he startles on his feet. Tom, on the contrary, stays very still and perfectly composed, sneering briefly down at Harry before gazing the old man standing before them; his wide, pale eyes were shining like the reflection of a moon on a lake’s surface at night. 

“ _Harry Potter_ ,” The man says, gazing down on Harry to stare at the lighting scar on his forehead as he speaks. “You have your mother’s eyes. I still remember when she bought her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow.”

Harry blinks, astonished. Before he can think about anything to say, the old man turns his head to gaze at Tom.

“Ah, Tom Riddle,” He whispers, adjusting his eyes on his nose. “Your wand is powerful, very powerful. Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew.”

Tom smirks, extremely pleased, as he nods, not speaking a word – perhaps the answer was so obvious that he doesn’t have to answer at all.

A still, hushed silence falls in the room; it was in moments like these that Harry felt so vulnerable and naked. 

“Very well,” Says Mr. Ollivander, pulling a long tape measure out of his pocket as he steps closer to Harry. “Which is your wand arm?”

Harry boggles, biting nervously his bottom-lip; he glances at Tom before staring at the old man standing in front of him, not knowing if he was supposed to meet the man’s eyes, not knowing if his gaze was wanted there.

“I’m right-handed, Sir.”

The old man measures Harry from shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. He explains to Harry the nature of core’s wands, made by magical substance Harry had heard already by Tom, back in the days when he explained to Harry why wizards needed wands, and how much it means for a wizard to possess his own wand – and that is why, perhaps, Harry’s eyes were anchored on Tom’s, who was standing right by his side. 

“Now, Mr. Potter,” He speaks, after he’s flitted around the shelves to take down some boxes, finally offering Harry a brownish-gold wand. “Try this one: Beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches, nice and flexible. Take it and give it a way.”

And he does, eagerly and excitedly, but the results are miserable as the wand flies away from his right hand, almost hitting Tom’s head, forcing him to bend over to avoid the collision with a huffed sigh.

“Here,” Mr. Ollivander says again, offering him a deep-red, almost black, wand, twisting his lips as he speaks. “Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Try again.”

And Harry tries. And tries and tries and tries again – he loses the count of wands he has tried after the fifth attempt, the pile of tried wands mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair; but the more wands he tried, the more delighted and eager both Ollivander and Tom seemed to be. 

“You’re a complicated one, _Harry_ ,” Tom purrs against his ear, lips directly touching Harry’s skin, as he bends behind him when Ollivander was looking for another pair of boxes. 

Harry scoffs, rolling his eyes before nudging his elbow onto Tom’s belly, pushing him away. He receives a low and amused laughter as a response – but he doesn’t step away, and Harry is overjoyed; his warmth behind him has always felt _right_. 

Ollivander was looking at them, both sceptical and intrigued. When he comes back, he passes another wand to Harry.

“This is an unusual combination, but here, try this one: holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry holds the wand between his fingers, feeling the blood running in his veins as it warms up; moved by a sudden desire and out of shyness, he raises the wand above his head and as he swishes it in circles through the dusty air, his skin barely keeping him inside, copious and striking streams of red and gold sparks shoot from the end like fireworks, throwing dancing sparks of fierce light all over the room. 

Finally able to see himself as he really is, he feels complete, whole and valuable; his magic rumbling deep inside himself like it never had before, as if it has reunited with something that was taken away from them at birth. 

_This is who I am_ , he thinks, staring at the wand in his hands, his heart doing a kind of drumroll against his ribs and his lips curling in a glorious smile, _This is who I was always meant to be._

When turning his head to the side, he sees Tom’s eyes following the jolts of light with his lips hatched, cheeks slightly pinker than usual. 

“ _Bravo_! Very good, yes. Very good. But how curious, I wonder… How curious…”

He takes Harry’s wand and puts it back into its box, wrapping it in brown paper, still muttering. “How curious…”

“Sir., I beg your pardon,” Tom utters politely, frowning; and Harry knows what he’s about to ask, because he himself was thinking about the very same question but his heart was beating too fast for him to speak coherently. “But what’s curious?”

Ollivander looks down at Tom before clearing his throat quietly – and to Harry’s astonishment, the old man smiles. 

“It happens that the phoenix whose tail feather in Mr. Potter’s wand gave another feather – but just one other,” He says, chuckling at the sunned look on Tom’s face. “And it’s curious indeed that Mr. Potter should be destined for this wand when its brother is right in your pocket, Mr. Riddle.”

Harry gasps, opening and then closing his mouth, a few times, in his confusion. He turns his head to meet the old man’s gaze, but he wasn’t looking at them anymore as he continued wrapping carefully Harry’s wand; so, instead, he decides to look at Tom, hoping to find some kind of explanation.

Usually, in situations like these, Tom’s mind seemed to function with much more accuracy and precision than usual; he’s always been good at thinking coldly even in the most stressful situation – but by the way his eyes were wide as if he heard something totally unexpected, and his eyes were gleaming with daze, perhaps as curious as Harry, Harry thinks that this was _something_ _else_ entirely. Tom’s face was like a broken mask on which surprise and attraction could not be discerned, his eyes as deep as the edge of an abyss; he could not hide from him, not anymore. 

And as they face one another’s, waiting for Ollivander to finish wrapping Harry’s wand, Harry quivers – a strange feeling was coiling in his limbs, a warmth in his belly twisting into a tender but excruciating languor; there is nothing but truth between them, now, and where the truth stands there couldn’t be barriers, walls, lies nor disguises. Truth has always been good in knowing where to find the weakest spots.

Ollivander considers the two young wizards, the tips of his long finger tapping slowly on the box of Harry’s wand. 

“Remember,” He says, offering the box to Harry as he speaks to the both of them, somehow guarded. “The wand chooses the wizard.” 

Harry takes the box and pays before saying farewell to the old man. 

As they leave the shop, Tom’s face is somber again.

_I belong with you_ , Harry thinks, his magic still roaring ravenous in his blood, _I belong with you and there is no other way of expressing it._

  
  


***

  
  


They were in their room. The sky has already turned periwinkle blue; in just about a few hours, the morning birds will start singing peacefully outside the window, waiting for the sun to rise and shine to mark the beginning of Harry’s first year at _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_. 

Harry is nervous. He dares to glimpse at his trunk adjacent to his bed, on the floor and still open, as though he’s waiting to remember what he’d forgotten – but everything was ready to go: his spellbooks, hir robes, his cauldron and his wand; Hedwig was already asleep in her large cage. 

Sirius and Remus’s joyful laughter resound from the drawing room downstairs. 

He searches for Tom’s eyes.

The older boy is in his own bed, holding a book in his lap; back against the headboard, legs resting on the mattress and ankles crossed. 

As Harry lays on his side, facing Tom’s side, his mind travels back to what has happened that same morning. Last time he had seen something bringing out such a surprised and unsettled reaction in Tom was when he had accidentally summoned a wind to push Billie away, back in days at Wool’s Orphanage – but that very moment was like a bliss to him, as though it belonged to another Harry in another life, another time, and was now different to what both him and Tom are now.

_This morning was different_ , he thinks, closing his eyes to remember the sensations that assaulted his body while holding his wand for the first time. Harry felt so close to Tom, he thought, for a brief moment, to have ended up on the other side of him. 

Different but equals. Identically different, Tom and him.

He looks at Tom long enough to make him aware of the intensity of his stare. He glances at the way his shoulders bend over the book, his pale neck, his bare feet, the area between his inner and outer elbow – he was worshipping him; his beauty is almost damned, driving Harry into despair and he can’t help himself but to feel peaceful, the kind of peace that comes after having laid arms in surrendered on a battlefield.

_Helpless love_ – _once it gets into your heart_ , _it doesn’t leave you alone_.

“Tom?” He calls him, soft and low, almost unsure.

But Tom doesn’t raise his eyes from the book while answering back with a calm and peaked _hum_ , flipping a page with his left finger. 

“I need to know,” He says again, this time more convinced, trying hard not to blush as he searches for the perfect words in his mind. “What do you think it means? You know, well, for our wands to be– _brothers_.”

As soon as the word _brother_ escaped from Harry’s lips, Tom turned his face towards him, as though a chill draft had touched his ear; his emotions were sparkling so vividly in his eyes, a warm shiver runned down Harry’s spine.

“We must find out,” He says firmly, closing his book and moving it on his side before turning in Harry’s direction with his whole body, feet touching the floor as he sits with his back straight up. “We’ll duel at Hogwarts. There’s a room we could use, a room where no one will find us. It’s where I practise most of my spells.”

Harry gasps, suddenly out of breath, and pushes his glasses further back on his nose with one finger.

“The Chamber of Secrets?” He whispers hopeful, clearly overexcited. 

Tom tilts his head to the side, looking elusive for just a moment. He tightens his lips together, as though thinking deeply, before answering.

“No. No, we won’t duel there.”

Harry frowns. He remembers how they spent their entire summer, two years ago, discussing all the possible places where the Chamber could have been hidden.

“But you’ll show me! You have to!” He cries stubbornly and demandingly, pointing one finger against him as he snaps: “ _You_ found it because _I_ helped you!”

Tom stood up while the youngest yelled the latest words, and is now walking towards him. He sits serenely on Harry’s bed, right by his side; the springs under the mattress creak as their shoulders touch. 

Harry looks up at him, fierce and livid; pride stretching his features as he locks their gaze together, biting his bottom lip to fight himself not to look away. 

“I’ll show you one day,” Tom says silkily, looking down at him; the left angle of his mouth lifting in a soft, amused grin. “I promised you, haven’t I?”

Harry rolls his eyes, suddenly embarrassed, as though his words have stroke him.

“You did,” He mumbles quietly, lowering his eyes before bowing his head to hide away the flush burning on his cheeks. But Tom has no shame: he lifts his head up once more, pressing his left index under the youngest’s chin as though he wanted to indulge him into satisfying his requests to look at him right in the eyes, to not hide away.

“And you know I keep my promises,” He purrs against Harry’s forehead, tilting his head to the side to take a better look on his lightning-bolt scar, eyes narrowing smoothly, almost tauntingly. “Right, Harry?”

Harry scoffs and sulks his lips. Tom wasn’t allowing him to escape nor to hide his flushed cheeks; he was bewitching him, and not in a mocking way. He wanted to drink each of Harry’s raw reactions up because he knew his urgent stare is like a catalyst for his emotions, making him feel exposed and naked – perhaps, making him more himself than he could ever be without Tom’s hungry eyes sinking into his. 

Harry blinks, trying to recollect himself. He nods once, slowly, inhaling some air before tilting his head back, this time with more determination, bringing himself to stare at their feet on the floor. Casually, then, he moves his toes to reach over Tom’s toes and touch them, slipping his big toe in between his big toe and his second toe.

Tom has never been comfortable with having people touching him, being too close to him, invading the intimacy of his space; and Harry has always waited for him to reach out first, for a sign to know he was okay with his fingers touching his hair or intertwining with his own, with his hands reaching out to cup his cheeks, with his arms to hug him close, with his face to rest on his chest while napping. 

But this time, there was no warning. And a moment later, Tom starts to reciprocate the movement: his left knee touches Harry’s right knee, his toes strokes his.

Harry doesn’t know what has gotten into him, causing him the necessity to seek for comfort, to feel Tom’s body and warmth against his – perhaps it was the possibility of being sorted into another House that isn’t Slytherin, not being able to see and have him just for himself like this very night; being separated from him. 

“Tom?” He calls softly once more, his name tasting sweetly on his tongue.

“What now?”

He raises his head, turning it to seek for his eyes as he asks: “Hug me?”

Tom’s eyes shine right back at him, flaming possessively like a newborn vertigo, calling him as though Harry couldn’t live without him.

_Nothing could go wrong_ , he thinks when Tom brings his left arm around him, urging him close in his embrace. Is this all Harry could have ever wished for? Yes, but maybe no. Yes, but maybe there’s more. Maybe there could have been more. He’s happy, yes; but maybe, just maybe, one day there will be more. 

With his eyes now closed, Harry sighs tenderly, stroking his cheek on Tom’s right shoulder, prompting the oldest to grab the hair at the very back of his head, his thumb massaging in circles the skin just under Harry’s ear. 

“If I don’t get sorted in Slytherin–” 

But Tom interrupts him abruptly, asking calmly: “Do you want to?”

“I want to be with you,” He answers quickly, eyes wide open. He shakes his head as though to jolt a thought away, crumpling nervously with his fingers the fabric of Tom’s black shirt as he explains: “My parents were sorted in Gryffindor, and I–”

Tom’s hand reaches him out, resting on where Harry’s is, closing his palm on the back of it, stopping him from crumpling; he intertwines their fingers together, caressing his bare knuckles.

Harry’s heart thudds madly as Tom’s mellow voice meets with the warm skin of his neck, making it flutter lightly under his lips.

“Things will be different at Hogwarts, Harry,” He whispers slowly. “No matter what happens during your Sorting ceremony.”

“Umh. _Right_ , I almost forgot,” Harry chuckles humbly, reaching for the oldest’s neck to muffle his giggles, mimicking Tom’s modest tone of voice while saying: “Your _look at me, I’m cold and evil-_ reputation.”

But Tom frowns, provoked by his bright sneer.

“It’s called _earned_ respect,” He mutters quietly, grabbing Harry’s naturally scruffy hair at the back of his head to slightly tilt him a few inches away, giving him a tragic look. “But you wouldn’t know, would you?”

Harry’s mouth falls open, roaring with laughter. He knows how Tom’s words made sense, he knows how much he cared and had worked to get looked up by other students with respect and envy, admiration; how much effort and commitment to become one of the best students in Hogwarts’ history; how much he had struggled to get where he is now, how many insults and jokes he had to leave behind his back because of his blood-status, with his chin proudly raised up as though nothing could haunt him down, making sure each day to demonstrate and assure his worth – but in this very moment, while still being his one and only Tom, as though the _Tom-Hogwarts-student_ was someone else and everything was still galaxies away from them, he can’t help himself but to laugh. 

Tom sighs desperately, shaking his head as though he doesn’t approve; but his lips curl in an amused grin, meaning, _laugh all you want, we’ll see who will laugh at the end_ , making Harry’s laughter grow bigger and richer, tears lighting his emerald eyes. 

When the heat of the moment had passed, and Harry calmed himself down, catching some breath, he could bring himself to realise his anxiety and nervousness were finally gone. Tom had shielded him from his own hell and self-loathing. 

And he must have sensed it, too, because his arm leaves Harry’s shoulder and comes to rest behind his back, hand pressed against the mattress. But Harry doesn’t want him to slip away so soon; wishing to somehow keep this moment to exist forever throughout time, silently, he shifts closer. He holds a hand out, reaching the knuckles of Tom’s hand resting on the bed, caressing tenderly his skin. 

Tom looks down at him, allowing him to touch him as much as he wants as he doesn’t shift his hand away. And he does: he caresses each one of his knuckles, his nails, following the exposed veins on the back on his hands with his fingertips, his wrist; he does it slowly, taking in each inch of his pale skin. 

Harry slowly raises his eyes to stare at him, but Tom has his eyes closed; his head is tilted to the side, resting. He is enjoying his touch. 

The youngest can’t find the words to define the soft tension surrounding them, perhaps he doesn’t have to – Tom has placed him at the center of his chaotic soul, right into the heart its storming core. 

There is now wall he would not scale, no fortress he would not destroy, no ocean he would not sail, there is not a single thing stopping Harry to reach out for him, always. And as he welcomes his own thoughts, he smiles lightly, stopping his fingers from moving; quietly, he rests the palm of his hand on Tom’s shoulder, pushing him further down as though to confess him a secret. 

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” He whispers, feeling his cheeks burning red when Tom opens his eyes and turns his head to look at him; consternation on his face. He rushes himself to speak again, this time more resolute: “ _Please_? Just for tonight.”

There is a moment of silence. Harry blushes ever more, feeling stupid to have asked him such a thing; yet, Tom continues to look at him, deeply intrigued, a twist of both perplexity and curiosity in his gaze – his irises veined with secret emotions that he reserved for him and him only.

He was expecting an answer. Any kind of answer would have been fine, because Harry has survived Tom’s rejections before; he could survive another. 

But to his surprise, Tom doesn’t answer him. He simply draws further back on his bed, touching the wooden headboard with his back. 

Harry’s ears go pink as he pulls the bed sheet, narrowing lightly his eyes while looking down at him, as though meaning to ask him, _are you coming?_

Tom doesn’t look away when the youngest starts to crawl to him and Harry holds his gaze. Serenily, he comes to face him, now just a few inches away from his body, a feeling of pure overjoy curls his lips into a bright smile, bringing Tom to surprisingly smile back, elfinly. As they lay together under the bed sheet, facing each other, the lights off, their heads resting on the same pillow, for the very first time in what have been four years, Harry realises how young Tom actually is: even though he’s just fifteen, he’s always been taller, stiffer, darker; but now, resting with his eyes half-closed, his hair disheveled, the moonlight peeking through the windows of their room, kissing his pale skin and making it even paler, he looks like the most beautiful thing Harry has ever seen.

He breathes in deeply through the nose, exhaling while quietly clearing his throat. 

Tom calmly opens his eyes, looking straight down at him as though knowing exactly where to meet his emerald gaze even in the dark. They’ve been in the dark together before, many and many times more; their bodies and souls have learnt to find each other blindly – whenever one couldn’t find himself, he could find the other; and that was enough. 

“This _thing_ involves the both of us,” Harry whispers, shifting closer as Tom frowns, wrinkling his nose in confusion. He parts his lips as though to speak, but Harry doesn’t let him; he cups his left cheek with the palm of his hand, caressing his jaw with his free hands’s fingertips. “You might have your rules, you might want to be discreet and keep this a secret. But I want you to know that–”

But the words die in his mouth as Tom starts to laugh, mimicking what he himself had done just a few moments earlier.

Tom has always been persuasive in everything he has ever done, each of his gestures and words were designed to be perfect, to make him naturally look impeccable to the eye: no wrinkles on his robes, no coarse laughter nor rash gestures to betray his deepest intents; and since he never had to hide nor suppress emotions he didn’t feel in the first place, his facade was authentic. But in that very moment, as his lips parted gradually and his astonished smile widened until it brought him to laugh genuinely, his always so controlled features transformed, becoming barely recognizable; shrills breaking the coerced composure of his voice, eyes as vivid and lively as they never had, like the floating flames of a candle, making him more _alive_ than anything else has ever done. Not even his deepest passion for the Dark Arts.

Harry’s heart leaps in his ribs. He looks at him, contemplating the way his chuckles make his shoulders quiver softly, the tears in his eyes moistening his thick lashes; he doesn’t turn his stare away when his laughter slowly starts to come to an ease. 

He has never felt this luckier in his life.

“Oh, my _sweet_ Harry,” He whispers hoarsely, the ghost of a chuckle still on his lips, now wet. “How dare you think you could ever be a _secret_?”

When Tom wraps his hands around his hips, he doesn’t avert. He holds his cheeks in both of his palms as the oldest’s face inclines further down; they’re so close their foreheads touch, their legs intertwin under the sheets. 

Tom’s low voice; a lullaby in his ears, singing him to sleep: “You belong with _me_.”

  
  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  


**_HOGWARTS_** _,_ ** _MARCH_** **_1940_**

  
  


Harry barely had any sleep last night, he rather lay thinking about the coming Quidditch match against Slytherin. He woke up earlier than his friends; he got dressed quickly and went down to breakfast, finding the rest of the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, empty table, looking uptight and not speaking with each other. 

He hinted at the Slytherin table too, finding Tom having breakfast with few other of his housemates. He recognized Avery, Mulciber and Rosier – contrary to the other boys, who were laughing as though they were teasing one another’s, Tom wasn’t smiling much. Harry knew that, no matter how each one of them was devoted to him nor how he claimed they were his friends, he wasn’t really attached to them as Harry was with Ron and Hermione. He himself has told Harry, some summers ago, how he kept them around and manipulated them only for his reputation, to get what he wanted. 

Harry isn’t particularly fond of them since they spend a lot of their free time chasing Gryffindors down just for fun. Yet, he likes Avery, who happened to be the most introvert of the group – he even talked to him, once, when Harry was waiting for Tom’s Divination period to finish; they happened both to be standing outside his class, waiting for him. And even though Avery had all reasons to avoid him and pretend Harry wasn’t there, he was the one starting the conversation and keeping it going casually, patiently. They chit-chatted mostly about Quidditch, until Avery had asked him what was like to live with Tom.

_We never asked him, but when our second year began, believe me, he was somehow different_ ; he said, embarrassment almost spilling out of his eyes. Then he shrugged and sighed dramatically, mimicking lightly with his hands, _I hoped for you to be sorted in Slytherin, we would have had a lot of fun together._

Harry smiles now, meeting Avery’s eyes; and the older student smiles back, waving a hand towards him in a greeting motion. The other boys turn in his direction, too, forcing Tom’s eyes to follow them, locking his gaze in Harry’s.

He blushes as Tom grins slightly, unnoticed by his housemates; dormant longing hiding deep within his irises. Harry takes a deep breath and holds it in his lungs as he stubbornly keeps staring right into his eyes, trying to ignore the red blooming on his ears and down his neck. 

There’s something sharp in Tom’s features when he stiffs more rigidly, narrowing his eyes while gazing briefly at Avery, who was still looking at Harry; a bundle of nerves ready to spring, face twisting with forced steadiness and composure. 

He can feel the oldest’s magic crackling in him like electricity, his possessiveness almost palpable. 

_You belong with me_.

He sighs gravely, biting his inner cheeks to stop himself from smiling as he walks towards the Gryffindor’s table; disheveled hair and unstoppable shivers.

***

As Harry walks out onto the Quidditch field, a roar of noise greets him; mainly cheers, coming from both the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff seats, but the Slytherins were making their usual _boos_ and _hisses_ , too. 

He quickly looks around, trying to spot his friends in the crowd, knowing he wouldn’t have the time to find them. Indeed, as Madam Hooch’s whistle, marking the beginning of the match, Harry rises towards the cloudy sky, flying higher than any of the other players, quinting around for the Snitch. 

Rosier was just underneath him – he seemed about to yell something at him when a heavy black Bludger came pelting toward him. 

Harry turns in midair, ending upside-down to avoid the Bludger; everything happened so fast he felt it ruffling his hair as it passed.

“Nice one, Harry!” George yells, streaking quickly past him to give the Bludger a powerful whack toward Mulciber. But as the Bludger changes direction halfway and shoots straight for Harry once more, Harry cries out, frustrated, dropping quickly and smoothly to avoid it as Fred manages to hit it toward Rosier. 

Yet, the Bludger swerves like a boomerang and shoots right at Harry’s head, as though it was _meant_ to _follow_ him anywhere.

“Oh, _end me_ already!” He grunts, while bursting of speed and zooming toward the other end of the field; the Bludgers whistling along, right behind him. 

He doesn’t understand what is happening: Fred and George try a few more times to hit the Bludger away, protecting Harry instead of focusing on their other teammates; but each time they batter it away, it comes back, somehow attracted specifically to Harry, forcing him to fly further away. 

Fred and George were still trying to free Harry from the Bludger’s attention, or at least to give him enough space and time to look for the Snitch, but Harry couldn’t see anything except their flailing arms.

“Someone’s _tampered_ with this Bludger!” Fred yells before swinging his bat with all the energy he had left by the several already attempted launches. 

“We need time out!” George gasps out, trying to signal to Wood. 

But Harry is faster: he flies toward George and Fred, smooth and quick.

“ _Listen_!” He cries out demandingly, panting and sweating. “Go back to the rest of the team, they need you. I can deal with this on my own!”

“Don’t be stupid,” Fred says, waving his bat in midair. “That _thing_ is gonna kill you!”

“Don’t do anything reckless,” George yells back, getting ready as the Bludger starts to approach in their direction once more. “We need to–Harry? _Harry_!”

But Harry has already flown into the air with the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind him.

He climbs up the sky, higher and higher, looping and swooping, spiraling and zigzagging his way in midair, rolling each time the Bludger reaches him too closely. He can hear rich and deep laughter coming from the crowd as he flies over the Slytherins’ seats; perhaps no one has noticed what was happening and he must be looking so stupid to everyone. 

_Merlin_ , he thinks as he hangs upside-down to avoid another fierce dive from the Bludger, starting to feel numb and dizzy, _What would Tom be thinking of me?_

When last night they met secretly in the Room of Requirements to train together and explore the bond between their wands, as they’ve been doing for over a year, Harry had to literally _beg him_ to come see the match the next morning; by the way Tom’s lips curved amusingly while fixing Harry’s glasses, which got broken when Harry failed to cast a shield and flied with his back to the ground, he knew Tom must have enjoyed his prayers quite a lot. Cheeky _bastard_. 

“Having fun, Harry?” Rosier yells while Harry is forced to do a twirl in midair to dodge and avert the Bludger after him. And as he roars indignantly while looking at the older Slytherin, not hiding his hatred, he finally sees the shining Snitch for the first time since the match has started. 

He turns suddenly quiet, mouth closing as he forces himself to be idle; something he has learnt to do well enough, having spent half of his life with Tom. 

He cannot afford Rosier to notice the Snitch, too. He has to think about avoiding a _damn_ Bludger already; so the more he keeps him distracted, the better.

**_Right_ **. The Bludger–

But he himself got distracted a second too long and the Bludger had hit him, smashing directly into his elbow. 

Harry’s mouth opens as an agonizing cry escapes his lips; tears burst in his eyes, the sensation of the bones in his arm breaking. Stunned by the searing pain in his now-broken arm, he dimly slides sideways on his broom; his right arm dangling useless at his side. He swerves out of the way as the Bludger comes pelting back for a second attack, this time aimed directly at his face.

Biting his bottom lip to stop an agonizing scream from leaving his mouth, Harry makes a wild snatch, grabbing the broom with his still functioning hand as he flies closer to the ground – and then, moved by a sudden adrenaline rush, as he flies just above the ground, he pushes himself to stand with his feet on the broom’s stick. 

He takes his remaining hand out, shifting himself on the edge of his broom; Harry feels his fingers close around the cold Snitch, shrill howls coming from the crowds as he tries hard not to lose his balance and fall off his broom. But a moment later, with a splattering thud, he brutally hits the ground, rolling in the mud. 

His right arm hangs at a very horrific angle, making him almost faint at the sight of it; then, riddled with pain and with his mouth wide open in soundless screams, he hears, as though from a distance, the crowd whistling and shouting. 

Laying on his back, he lowers his eyes on the Snitch clutched in his left hand.

_He can’t move._

He closes his eyes hastily, as though fighting himself not to faint, before a cry coming from his left forces him to open them once more. He turns his head in its direction, his visions blacking out as he sits up, bum pressed on the muddy ground; he sees Hermione and Ron running toward him, gesticulating desperately with their arms raised up in the air. Tom is right behind them, but he’s faster: he rushes in Harry’s direction, exceeding and surpassing Hermione and Ron as he grabs a hold of his wand, pointing it in the sky with fury.

Harry frowns confused as he follows the movement with his head. 

A cold shiver runs down his spine as he blinks with terror at the Bludger coming straight down on him from the sky; it was swooshing violently, almost roaring. 

Harry closes his eyes as he rolls to the side, diving away from the Bludger. It hits the ground and raises itself once more up the sky, only to come down again, ready to assault him as though its whole existence depended on it, and Harry can’t move, laying flat with his back on the soil, not even the adrenaline burning inside of him could have helped. He promptly closes his eyes, catching and holding in his breath, getting ready to the coming collusion and agony. 

But to his mercy, it doesn’t come.

Someone yells irately: “ _Reducto_!”, causing the Bludger to be blasted to pieces. 

He knows that voice. He could recognize it blindly, even in death.

_Tom_. 

Harry has never heard Tom’s voice this angry and shattered while casting a spell: he could feel weakly his magic roaring irately in his blood, almost as though Tom himself was experiencing Harry’s excruciating pain.

He shuts his eyes open as he sits up once more, meeting Tom’s anxious gaze as the Slytherin comes to stand in front of him, breathless: he’s paler than usual, his eyes wide, beseeched by rage; his knuckles whitened firmly around the hilt of his wand. 

“ _Ah_ ,” Harry weeps out quietly, tilting his head to the side; a weary smile is curling his lips, feeling suddenly exhausted by the tumult of emotions. “What would I do without you?”

Harry’s eyes close suddenly: he hears distant cries as though he was underwater; someone firmly grasping him, preventing his back from hitting the ground. 

A soothing voice in his ears, whispering: _“I got you.”_

He faints.

***

When Harry comes around, a golden light is shining on his face. He blinks numbly, realizing he was resting on a bed in the hospital wing; the sun burning out on the horizon, setting quietly. 

He feels empty: no pain nor agony, only a hollow calm and tiredness; he grunts through clenched teeth, wretched, as he tries to sit down. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” A hiss coming from his left side causes his cheeks to flush, his heart to accelerate softly in his ribs; a warmth sensation spreads suddenly in his belly. 

Harry’s lips curl in a sweet, sleepy smile as he feels Tom’s glacial gaze on him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” He whispers before slowly turning his head to the side of the hiss, only to meet Tom’s clenched features a moment later. “I’m too hurt already, I can’t bear your _hysteria_ too.”

Tom sighs theatrically, standing up only to discreetly adjust Harry’s glasses up his nose before sitting down once more. The younger wizard hums and slumps back onto his pillows, pushing his glasses back with one finger while murmuring a quiet _“thank you”_ as he takes in his figure sitting by his side: Tom looks like a statue sitting on a chair, very close to his bed; his legs are crossed, so are the arms on his chest; not a single fold in his robes.

His eyes gaze in Harry’s emeralds, the left corner of his mouth curls in a sudden amused motion as he asks: “Why haven’t you stopped?”

Harry gasps incredulously, almost offended. Tom doesn’t look away: he feels as though the older wizard is trying to memorize every detail of his anatomy through the orange light of the sun setting; his eyes piercing in his own with intense yearning. 

“And have _Slytherins_ won?” Harry asks, giggling softly. “Not a chance in a lifetime.”

But Tom sneers bitterly, clenching his jaw as he responds immediately, mumbling coldly: “Because a victory is more important than your lifetime, isn’t it?”

Harry hoots quietly, closing his eyes to avoid looking directly at him. He feels vulnerable and overthrown, a kid with crooked glasses and an awful headache, while Tom looks perfect in his perfect features and his perfect robes. He hates feeling this juvenile compared to him, but he refuses to show himself overwhelmed and fragile, deciding to adopt a more diplomatic and _Gryffindor like_ approach. He hasn’t forgotten Tom’s expression when he rescued him on the Quidditch field – furious, moved by rage; his magic fluttering with sinister furor. 

“First of all, that’s something I would say to you,” He mutters candidly, a warm ache making his belly twist as he remembers how Tom’s usually so composed features were moved by genuine fear and anxiety. “Secondly, don’t be dramatic. Nothing happened!”

But Tom doesn’t seem convinced.

“Nothing happened…” He repeats slowly, almost a whisper, tasting the words as though he didn’t understand them for how unpleasant and unknown to him they were; his features twist austerely as a dark aura starts to crackle around him. 

Harry shivers coldly, knowing what that meant. There are only a few things that could make him lose control of himself – a memory pops in his mind, suddenly, like the snap of a storm about to break, bringing him back to their last summer together when they’ve discussed the significance of the _horcrux_ for the very first time. 

_Would you kill for me, Tom?_

Something that had moved him as much as it had flattered him. There is something profane about _Dark Magi_ c – an overturning of principles and morals, as much as danger, brutal like a curse, insinuating like a snake; a methodical stab from behind when one least expected it, a slice meant to be a creation, but the knife filled with blood. 

An access to something as pure as concern starts to take hold of him. Harry finds the strength to bring himself to sit and raise his left hand, since his _now-not-anymore-broken_ right arm still feels numb, greeting the older wizard. 

“Look at me,” He demands quietly, his throat tightening. When Tom’s eyes don’t meet his, Harry brushes his left cheek with his own fingertips, caressing it softly before cupping it. He repeats, more steady, whispering: “Look at me, _Tom_.”

Tom’s eyes embrace him within seconds, making Harry’s heart laps: his face is a moonlike pallor, but his cheeks are pink; no wrinkles nor imperfections on his skin as Harry fondles his fingers on his cheekbones, as though he’s grazing silk. 

“Nothing happened,” He mutters once more, touching softly every little detail on his face as though to calm him: the curve of his nose, his eyebrows, the side of his temple, his cheek, coming to delineate the contour of his lips. Harry’s voice is hushed, his own breath is meant to be a kiss on his skin. “Nothing happened.”

He knows Tom must hate him as much as he craves him, he always had. Harry was a thorn under his very skin; something Tom was never able to predict nor to control, but always had by his side, a constant presence. Harry had feared to be a burden to him most of his childhood – but growing up he had realized, by the way Tom looked at him throughout the years, afraid to wish for what he himself was longing for, by the way he touched him as though he wanted him to be engraved on the palms of his own hands, that Harry was essential to him like lifeblood. 

Love and hate: Tom has always hated to depend on something – _someone_ – but longed for that someone to be Harry and only Harry and tormented himself for that. 

The Slytherin must have sensed his flow of thoughts because, with total composure, bordering on a gesture that is both gently and glacial, he brings his hand on Harry’s, still on his face, resting on the back of his hand just a moment before lowering down both of their hands on Harry’s lap; their finger twined together.

“Stop it now,” He hisses quietly, causing Harry to gasp. “Someone might–”

But the door of the hospital wing bursts open at that very moment, bringing both wizards’ gazes in the direction of the doorway, suddenly frozen into place. 

Dumbledore is heading calmly toward Harry’s bed, wearing a long woolly dressing gown, but stops as soon as he meets Tom’s cold and resolute stare. His eyes glimpse briefly on their intertwined fingers right on Harry’s lap before looking at the two students from under his thick silver eyebrows, smiling serenely.

Harry is having difficulties in breathing, his chest is rising and falling rapidly; he feels his cheeks combusting with heat, his stomach giving a horrible lurch. He hears a sharp intake of breath coming from his side but he doesn’t look as Tom’s fingers loose their firm grip, withdrawing from his carefully just a moment later.

Dumbledore hasn’t gazed at the movement, but Harry is certain he was aware of it when it happened. He must have decided to ignore it, perhaps not wanting to disturb such unthinkable moment of intimacy. 

His voice is calm when he speaks, breaking the tensed silence.

“That was some catch you made, Harry.”

Harry sits motionless, stunned, still not daring to look at Tom’s side. He gulps before answering, thunderstruck: “Thank you, sir.”

For a moment, neither of them speak. Then Dumbledore folds his arms behind his back, finally turning his gaze on Tom.

“Tom,” He greets, pleasantly.

Finally, Harry turns his head to stare at him, too. He knows how much Tom dislikes Dumbledore and hearing his name in such a greeting tone must have felt like a crossbow bolt in the stomach.

But Tom’s features are rigid, settled, a sharp grin is curling his lips, both his arms and legs are crossed elegantly as he hasn’t stood up to welcome the older wizard; but his eyes gleam vividly as though he’s just seen a ghost. 

His voice is as cold as a first fresh-December’s blizzard. 

“Professor.”

“Madam Pomfrey said someone has insisted on staying with Harry,” Dumbledore says in a level voice, still staring at Tom right in the eye; a soft smile curls his lips, as though he hasn’t noticed his student’s hostile attitude. “I should have expected to find you.” 

Harry blinks a few times, slowly, drifting his gaze from Tom to Dumbledore’s silhouettes a few times, back and forward; lips tightening in a thin line. 

Dumbledore’s smile is disarming, Tom’s features are as dense as steel.

“Very clever of you to cast a _Reducto_ , too,” The old wizard goes on, moving his gaze on Harry. “Who knows what the consequences might have been otherwise…”

Harry’s eyes flew on Tom within seconds: he’s trying hard, Harry can tell, to seek a residue of self-demeanor; his eyes betray an unpleasant feeling of exposure, as though Dumbledore had caught him doing something he shouldn’t have done, something that didn’t suit him.

Tom doesn’t answer, his hands clench and unclench as the older wizard looks around briefly, glimpsing away from an apparently surreal situation. 

Then, Dumbledore turns to look at Harry. 

“I’m glad to see you’ve recovered well, Harry. I came here to let you know we found the culprits who have tampered with the Bladger.”

Harry gulps, slowly drumming on his lap with his left fingers. His body escapes from his control, his face suddenly livid; he should behave with ease, but his heart was beating thumpingly in his ribs. 

“Have you? Who was it?”

“Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabble. Perhaps, we have reasons to suspect Draco Malfoy was involved too.”

Harry’s lips depart suddenly into a wide, unimpressed grin. Yet, as though enlightened by a startling thought, he raises questioningly his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side.

“How did you find out?”

Dumbledore humhs thoughtfully, causing Harry to frown, confused. He glances quickly at Tom’s side, noticing how his face has turned into a cold and unruffled mask, resuming his impassive features. His eyes are locked on Dumbledore’s. 

“You see, this is interesting,” Dumbledore says, slowly. “They both came to see me in my office just a hour ago. They gave themself in, admitting to have tampered with the Bludger. It was quite… _odd_.”

Harry frowns gloomly, his indifference leaving place to more confusion and concern. He opens his lips as though to speak, only to be surprised by the voice coloured by false interest coming from his side.

“ _Odd_?” Tom has asked, voice laced with mirth; hands clasping together on his knees.

Startled, Harry flinches. He stares intensely at Tom’s hands, running his own fingers through his hair as a sense of diffidence assembles in his belly; he releases quietly a breath he’s been holding without knowing, heart thundering in unease, trying to reach his magic with his own.

_What if… No, it’s not possible… He couldn’t have..._

He barely hears Dumbledore’s voice, too focused on studying Tom’s features and movements, suddenly serious, anxious to the point of dizziness; his previous worries came back to him like the Bludger has done during the match, pervasively. 

“Is there something you wish to tell me, Tom?”

Tom sits quite still, gazing coldly fervid right into Dumbledore’s eyes. 

“No, Sir. Nothing,” He says, in a hushed and contained voice. “I trust Mr. Dippet’s decisions about what to do with the culprits.”

Harry feels something like torment twisting his insides, his lips fold in a scowl halfway between nervousness and rebuking; he could grasp Tom’s lies blindly. 

And just for a moment, he thinks Dumbledore could too.

Harry rubs his eyes under his glasses with the back of his left hand, pressing down upon them while weeping softly, pretending to sound drained and exhausted. 

He hears Dumbledore’s robe swish silently; his arms unfold.

“Very well, then,” The old wizard says quietly, indulging him to open his eyes once more to glimpse at the man; his eyes weren’t staring at Tom anymore, but down at him. He speaks with the same calm tone as always. “We all will be waiting for you, Harry. Make sure to recover well before going back on your broom.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

He’s glad Dumbledore leaves without giving neither of them a second look, because he feels as though the twisting emotions inside him might spill over at any moment. 

When the door of the hospital wing shuts close, he turns his head in Tom’s direction, only to find him waiting patiently for his elmeralds. Flaming, embarrassed by the intensity of his gaze on him, Harry bites his bottom-lip, shaking his head firmly to jolt the shyness away.

“What have you done?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He sighs desperately, feeling the need to rest his head on the pillows in an attempt to alleviate the burning headache. Seeking the truth out of Tom was like trying in vain to break a Gringotts’ vault with his own head, to the point of bringing the skull to smash against the metal.

“I know you’ve done something,” He snaps, frustrated, before turning his eyes on him again, as though enslaved by his gaze. His voice turns softer when asking, lips curling in an imprudent smirk: “You think you can hide from _me_?”

_I’ve seen what you truly are._

Harry glimpses a gleam of amazement twisted with incomprehension in the onyx of Tom’s eyes; wicked and penetrable, but still so fond and unyielding he could almost forgive the ardent brutality of his gaze.

“No one can hurt you.”

Harry chokes on his own breath. If he hadn’t seen Tom’s lips move, he wouldn’t have believed his voice could be this low, causing his own magic to quiver deep within him; not concern, nor persistence, but low fervor reflecting the depth of his rage. 

“And those who dares to,” He hisses vengefully, with feigned calm, as his eyes cling in Harry’s as though they are the only things that could exist throughout the chaos of his soul. “Will endure the consequences of their audacity.”

He stares at him long enough to forget what led them to that very moment; the bond of their magic, usually fragile and quiet, has never felt this forceful and vital, leaving Harry breathless, yearning for more. 

Tom must feel it too, utterly vibrating between them, because he leans forward, raising himself from the chair to get closer to the bed. Harry closes his eyes, feeling the oldest’s hand cupping his cheeks, fondly and possessively, as if trying to get underneath his skin; his breath merging with Harry’s.

“ _Harry…_ ” He purrs greedly, sighing against the skin of his forehead before kissing it; his mouth open.

Harry’s heart sinks, something bursting in his throat. 

“I don’t want you to go.”

Tom is startled by the sudden change of topic: he blinks once, genuinely stunned by the despair of the youngest’s hushed cry, then tilts his head to the side to gaze deeper at his scar, his cheeks, the perfect shape of his lips, the restless movement of his throat as Harry swallows, before locking their eyes once more; his fingers shift on Harry’s pulse point and if he could stand, he knows his knees would give out. 

“Don’t go, don’t leave,” He hushes again, almost meeting his lips as he tilts his head higher up, looking directly at Tom, tenacity in the grip with which he tugs his Slytherin’s tie, prompting him to almost stumble. “Or take me with you.”

“You think I haven’t thought about it?”

Harry finds himself paralyzed. 

When Tom announced his _soon-to-be_ departure at the end of the upcoming summer, earlier in December, Harry felt the weight of the world crashing down on him; panic and fear seized him and he wasn’t able to do any magic for almost a week, as though it refused to respond to his commands. Most of their life they’ve been torn apart, away from one another, never able to coalesce completely because each time they tried, more distance was forced on them by external forces neither of the two could control. It was a tricky oxymoron, their existence: they were meant to be together, the universe brought them together as though it knew from the start, but there was always something testing their devotion to one another, their desire to be whole and to merge into each other, to become one another’s. 

He blinks, noticing how Tom hasn’t moved away from his grip. He licks his own lips with the tip of his tongue and Tom follows the movement briefly before looking at him once more.

“Then–”

“You don’t trust me?”

“This has nothing to do with trust!” Harry snaps, spunky. He shakes his head in disbelief, mocking himself for his own stubbornness; but he’s too fervent to recognize the shakiness in his voice or to be ashamed. “All my life I’ve seen you leaving. I’m sick and tired of it, I want to come with you.”

Tom presses the palms of his hands on Harry’s shoulders, nails digging in his skin through the fabric of the Quidditch uniform, perhaps conflicted whether to hold him back or chase him away. 

“I’m _not_ leaving you, Harry,” He grunts quietly, his voice hoarse but firm; the grip on his shoulders tightening. “Your magic is _mine,_ as mine is yours.”

Harry opens his lips as though to speak, but he sucks in his words as Tom presses his index finger against his lips. He shuts his mouth close, feeling that if he’d dare to breathe the world would collapse; Tom’s finger shifts to trace the verge of his jaw. 

“That’s enough, we’ll talk more about this. But not here, not now.”

He sighs deeply, feeling empty when Tom’s hands retire from his body, leaving him cold and incomplete. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it, but he could swear to have seen something akin to _starvation_ in the older wizard’s eyes. 

The Slytherin doesn’t sit back; rather, he steps away. He comes to face him before his bed, conflict in his features as he folds his arms behind his back, mimicking Dumbledore’s previous position – but just as Harry thought he had regained some control over himself, Tom’s words leave him breathless once more.

“I’ll take you with me this summer.”

Harry shuts his eyes wide open, his eyebrows jumping high. 

“What?”

Tom looks as though he’s about to laugh; but when he speaks, he does it in a voice of determined serenity. 

“It was supposed to be a birthday surprise, you _imbecile_.”

“How–”

But Tom cuts him off.

“I’ve already asked Remus and Sirius. We’ll be spending two weeks together, somewhere away from London,” He utters quietly, out of the side of his mouth, pretending to sound vaguely as his lips twist in an amused grin. “If you want, of course.”

Harry’s joy could reach the sky above and the whole milky way. 

The _audacity_ of him to control his mood swings with such _ease_!

“I do! I do want to!” He yells geely as he feels his belly terribly warm, bubbling tenderous delight, only to bring Tom’s amused grin to grow wider. 

The door of the hospital wing bursts open for the second time in less than an hour as the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team enter the room.

“Unbelievable flying, Harry!” Shouts George, walking swiftly over his bed followed by Ron and Hermione. “You should have seen how Mulciber yelled at Rosier. They were– _oh._ ”

They have brought cakes, sweets and bottles of pumpkin juice; yet they had just the time to gather around his bed, ready to raise a whole party, when everyone’s eyes fell on Tom, standing still in front of Harry, staring at the Gryffindor’s proudly commotion with his eyebrow raised up sceptically.

He sees how Ron’s mouth opening, about to say something, or at least to try shattering the awkward silence that fell upon them, probably because they knew no one was allowed to see him and were surprised to see Tom already there, but Madam Pomfrey comes storming over, shouting as she waves her arms over her head: “This boy needs to rest, he’ll join you soon after dinner! No out, everybody! OUT!”

Hermione’s joyfully hug has quickly found him before they were all sent out of the room. Tom stood still, as though _everybody_ doesn’t include him. 

Madam Pomfrey turns to look at him, crossing her arms on her chest as she intimates, in a muffled but fierce voice: “You too, now, Mr. Riddle.”

  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  


**_SUMMER 1940,_** **_CORNWALL_**

Tom and he left on the morning of August 1st, after having celebrated Harry’s thirteen birthday at the Burrow. 

Tom had _Appareted away_ early in the morning, when Sirius and Remus were still asleep, and carried their cases; he had to arrange a few final things before their arrival, so he asked Harry to be ready right after lunch. 

Pure joy and happiness were coiling tenderly in Harry’s heart. He wasn’t able to think about anything else for the entire morning nor to do something to keep himself busy while waiting; he didn’t even eat, as though his hunger couldn’t be satisfied with mere food. 

When the time finally came, Tom returned; he was holding a portkey in his left hand, grinning eagerly. They were all together in the kitchen: Sirius hugged Harry one last time as though he was a soldier ready to head straight into a battlefield, reminding him to use the mirror he gave him if anything happened; Remus ruffled slowly and gently his hair, a soft smile curling his lips as he wished the both of them a happy vacation. 

Tom narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly, silently asking Harry to get closer; and when they stood in front of one another, he raised his free hand, revealing his Slytherin’s tie in between his fingers. Harry frowed, confused, but before he could have asked an explanation, he found himself getting blindfolded; Remus’s laugh resounded in his ears, a scoffed _“how disgustingly adorable”_ coming from Sirius’s side. 

Harry had never used a portkey before. Everything happened in a heartbeat: his eyes under Tom’s tie were closed, their fingers interlaced, when he felt a powerful jerk behind his navel and the ground vanished from beneath his feat – he felt his body being embraced by Tom’s arms as they sped forward in a swirl of colors and a rush of wind until his feet hit the ground so hard his knees buckled.

As he scrambled to his feet to find some balance again, Tom ripped gently the tie from his eyes and he blinked in the blaze of the warm afternoon light. They were standing in the middle of a sunflowers’ field, close to a bluff: the roaring of the ocean, waves crashing against rocks, seagulls mewing as the circled overhead, the summer wind blowing and lingering between the two wizards; everything, even the littles of details, was so overwhelming Harry wasn’t surprised to find himself choked up as a bright laughter escaped from his lips, echoing throughout the field surrounding them. He felt Tom’s eyes on him when tears ran down his cheeks, causing his laughter to turn into soft and joyfully sobs. He thought he heard the angels sing to him as his ethereal lips kissed each tear away; heart pirouetting wildly in his ribs.

***

The cottage was perched on the plain near the woods, surrounded by nothing but wild and endless fields. There were no other abitations around it and the first village was mere kilometers away: it was rusty and ancient, but affectionately welcoming.

They spent the first day exploring the hidden magical rooms and secret passages within it. The hallways were narrowed, dimly lit, and there were red and green carpets covering the wooden floor. The drawing room was the biggest room in the cottage: it had large windows overlooking the fields outside the house, the walls were dirty-white and had few family portraits; there were a writing desk, a cozy couch right in front of a stone fireplace, a giant library with a great deal of old and dusty books about archaic magic, and a piano adjacent to the window that looked very much alike to the one in Grimmauld Place. On the side of the drawing room there was a small but well-functioning kitchen; in it there was a small, round wooden table with chairs and hanging light fixtures. On the first floor there was only a bathroom and a pair of stairs heading to the attic, which happened to be their bedroom: the wooden attic offered enough space to fit a bed in the middle, away from the sloping eaves walls, and the skylight windows provided enough light to desist from other unnecessary lighting. 

It was a property belonging to the Black’s family. On their first night together, during the first dinner, Tom recounted Harry how he had spent almost a month, back in December, writing letters to Siriurs and trying to convince him to let the two of them spend a summer vacation on their own; he wrote to Remus, too, knowing he would have played a good ally. In the end, Sirius’s only condition was to spend it somewhere the man knew, too. _In case of knowing where to start looking if anything happened_ , Harry joked, laughing lively at Tom’s questioning frown. 

***

When Harry thinks of their last days together, he pictures in his mind late-afternoon readings, early-morning excursions to the bay or to the waterfall in St. Nectans Glen, their lazy breakfasts in bed, their duels in the back garden since Tom had provided the cottage to be protected by wards to preserve Harry’s magic from the Trace, the walks down to the village throughout the wild fields, after-dinner chess’ matches. What a time they had, the depth of their souls shaking with both joy and despair as they were in the same body. 

Looking back to those days, there was ever a minute when they weren’t together: they cooked together and ate together, sometimes at the kitchen’s table, other times on the carpet near the couch, tearing down some pillows to be more comfortable, and other times again they ate on the front porch, moving the kitchen’s table outside to enjoy the last rays of bloody red as the sun was setting on the horizon; they slept together in the same bed, each night, cuddling so close it was difficult for Harry to state where his body ended and where Tom’s began.

How hungry each inch of him was for Tom, Tom for him: it was as though their blood, their flesh and bones seemed to cry and longing already for what was about to come. Sooner Tom would have been thousand miles away from him, and he didn’t ignore the tied knot in his throat; it was a test for their soon to be separated, like living the pain before it happens – they both knew what they were doing; but would their souls cry out for not having their other half by their side? 

***

It happened on a stormy afternoon, when Harry asked if he could have read a story he found quite interesting to him. The light had gone off but they didn’t mind much.

They were in the drawing room: Harry was reading the _Tale of the Three Brothers_ out loud, resting on Tom’s body, the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ laying on his chest; their legs were intertwined together, Tom’s hands were lazily stroking his hair. 

He looks up at him, stopping himself from reading: his eyes are closed, his features lighthearted; the frown on his forehead and the soft grin on his lips as unmistakable proof of his curiosity, but not of his entire focus. 

“Why have you stopped?” Tom asks, in a muffled voice, keeping his eyes closed.

In the silence of the moment, Harry’s lips curl in a small amused smile before answering, grimly and quietly: “I got distracted by looking at you.”

The oldest’s eyes open in a heartbeat. Harry doesn’t look away as his steely gaze comes to meet and lock into his own; he stares back not to provoke him nor to prove to him he isn’t shy, but to tempt him in. 

_The heart speaks more honestly to those willing to listen_.

Tom’s eyes gleam with keen eagerness, his lips twist in a greedy smirk as he brings one arm under his head and keeps on caressing Harry’s nape with the fingers of the other, nails scraping firmly but gently against his scalp, causing the youngest to hum in appreciation and gratitude.

“Do you think they really exist?” Harry asks, in a low voice, forcing himself not to close his eyes as Tom’s touch intensifies. 

“What exists?”

“The Deadly Hallows.”

Tom’s body jerks under him, his curiosity rising to the surface like a snake rearing from the grass. He raises his thin black eyebrow, finding his question intrigued, and he asks, in a silky but provocative tone: “What do you think?”

Harry frowns thoughtfully as he closes the book and sets it aside on the couch to bring his chin to rest on Tom’s chest, embracing his hips with his arms. Tom’s thumb shifts to rub the skin behind his ear. 

Pleasantly dazed by the sweet bolts that the oldest’s treatments elicit, he rubs slowly his own nose against the shape of his collarbone. 

“I can’t see a reason why they shouldn’t.”

“Of course you can’t. You’re still a child, after all.”

Harry’s smile falls quickly off his face as he stares at him with his mouth abruptly open, eyes wide and bright behind his glasses; raising his eyebrows, he asks, dubiously: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tom gazes intently at him for just a moment. Then, a presumptuous smirk appears upon his face so suddenly it prompts Harry’s heart miss a beat. 

“It’s a children’s tale, isn’t it?” He scorns him calmly, pretending to look puzzled. 

Harry’s head jolts up, like the rest of his body, with a sudden rush of understanding. 

“ _Oi!”_ He snaps wildly, offended. He nudges his elbows right onto Tom’s belly, causing him to cough heavily, out of breath. “How dare you?”

Tom looks faintly rattled, choking on his own protestingly yelps. He bears down upon him, perhaps about to counter attack, but Harry cuts him off before he could even try; a dull purple flush creeping up his face and ears.

“First of all,” He blurts out, the color deepening in his face at each word being spoken, shoving his palms on Tom’s shoulders as though to heave himself and get a higher ground before proudly stating: “I’m thirteen now.”

Tom casts a sternly amused look at him; his expression defiant, as though daring him to keep going. His hands reach Harry’s elbows, caressing the soft and bare skin. 

“Right,” He whispers, rather hoarsely; his words coming out like gasps. “What a grown-up.” 

Harry narrows his eyes fiercely, nudging his knees on the couch as he comes to sit on the oldest’s hip to be more comfortable. Tom allows it; his amused grin becomes more pronounced. 

“ _Secondly_ ,” He grunts back, reprovingly, more daring. “The tales of Beedle the Bard have everything and nothing to do with being a story for _children_.”

“ _Oh_? Why is that?”

His words come to an arrest and his heart starts pumping faster. 

He stares down at Tom, who was audaciously but serenely looking up at him, racking his brain to gather his stormy thoughts. But Tom grasps the tension within him raising and his hands shift down the youngest’s body, coming to hold his hips into place as though they were the perfect shape to suit Harry’s thin and fragile silhouette.

Suddenly aware of their position, he lowers his gaze on the hands embracing him. 

“I have the Cloak, remember?” He asks, trying to sound as smooth as he could, feeling as though his insides were melting. “Dumbledore gave it to me this year but it belonged to my father. He told me his father gave it to him so that he could later pass it on to his son.”

Tom’s amusement has fallen while Harry spoke. 

His face looks livid, eyes darting from his cheeks to his dazzling emeralds. Then, to his own surprise, one of his hands reaches out to pick up the book that had fallen on the floor when Harry’s body jerked and moved onto his. Even though he’s wearing an expression of utmost contempt while looking at it, Harry can feel the older wizard’s restless thoughts as though they are his own.

“I know it means _something_ to you, too,” He urges, quietly. 

Tom is breathing heavily as though an unpleasant sensation was constricting his chest. Harry was the only one able to deceive his facade of composed and uninterested manners, and that couldn’t have felt nice for someone who forces so much on himself in order for his mind to be impenetrable. 

“You’re insufferable.”

“Don’t change the topic of this conversation!”

Tom sneers lightly, his eyes glinting; but before he can find something else to say, Harry presses his right hand over his mouth, prompting him to roll his eyes, annoyed.

“You don’t like children’s tales because you don’t understand why you should waste your time thinking about such things,” He mutters, breathlessly but determined as he doesn’t take his eyes off Tom’s. “I can live with that. But you can’t deny how odd it is that my father had the Cloak of Invisibility and passed it to me just like it happens in the Tale!”

He takes his own hand off his mouth when his rant comes to an end, expecting an answer to hit him straight away. But silently, Tom first raises up on his elbows, then nudges the palms of his hands behind his back to reach Harry’s height. 

“What else have you learnt while reading this tale, Harry?” He murmurs greedly, inches away from his lips, almost as though he’s been starving for quite a long time; his eyes had ceased to sparkle amusingly and a naturally sensuous smirk has curled the left side of his mouth. 

Harry hums attentively, lured by the intensity of the older wizard’s gaze. Then, as the silence was becoming unbearable and Tom’s eyes were not leaving him a second, he blurts out, looking away: “That fear and power can only destroy.”

“What doesn’t?”

Harry blinks down at him, meeting his scrutinizing gaze; a soft challenge in the depth of his obsidian eyes as he stares at him as though he wishes to study his face and linger on it a little longer. Harry touches Tom’s upper lip with his fingertips, shifting them through the full lengh of it, back and forward, making him smile delicately, in a way that causes the youngest’s belly to warmer as though a fire has been setted in his limbs. 

He answers without having to think twice about it.

“Love.”

_Love is the only thing that can destroy and rebuild_ , Remus told him, what now seemed a previous lifetime, when Harry did accidental magic in his sleep and caused Tom, who was sleeping next to him, to get hurt. They hurried to St. Mungo’s Hospital in the middle of the night. Harry remembers he had cried so much the walls of the hospital’s corridor couldn’t stop shaking and Remus had hugged him so tightly, keeping him in his arms until the tears dried on his cheeks, _Love is the only power in the world that can destroy and rebuild, Harry, don’t forget it._

***

Tom is a master in speaking silently, communicating with no words; he had so many ways of saying things without actually saying them; with his eyes, he spoke and touched. He could speak with his silence as much as he could with his voice.

In the late afternoon that followed, they barely spoke a word to one another. They even ate dinner in silence, as each attempt from Harry to break it was rejected by Tom’s cold, sharp responses; and while Harry didn’t dare to glimpse at Tom’s side, he could feel his eyes constantly and thoughtfully fixed upon him. He knew he had been thinking about something because his gaze was heavy on his skin, burning him alive as though he commited a crime so vile he deserved to rot in his own ashes only to be reborn anew. And Harry, not knowing what was the reason behind such and sudden evil punishment – because to forbid him to know what was going on in Tom’s mind was anything but a punishment, to neglect him the addicting sound of his voice was an act so violent it felt almost like his soul being ripped apart – found himself howling and craving for more. 

More of his words, his hands, his warmth; his resentment, his hate, his rage. Anything, but not his silences. What was the meaning of it all, if the life they’ve made together couldn’t have been a place where both love and grief happen, and the secrets of the heart unfolds? Adults have always warned them of the bond taming one to the other, Dumbledore had tried through the years to find excuses for Harry to grow doubtful of Tom; but no ordinary soul could have had the possibility to see how deep the origin of their friendship layed. Because Tom was the soul he chose to keep within him, always – the soul he would kill for, the soul he would get himself killed for, the only soul he wanted by his side in the moment he craved for loneliness the most; because Tom’s soul was his, too. 

And Harry knew better than wishing for something that didn’t hurt. Because life was fragile and elusive, and as soon he thought he had understood something of it, another mystery or uncertainty would emerge like the morning star, leading the way down the chaotical existence of the universe. He knew better than to wish for things that didn’t exist in the first place – because wishing for love with no pain nor ache was like wishing for a rose to have no thorns, for a tree to have no roots.

_So this is what it feels like_ , he thinks as he closes the bathroom’s door behind him, heading to the attic only to find Tom already in bed, the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ resting open on his lap like a pure bride on their first wedding night. _This is what it feels like to love someone so much to not know who you were before they held you._

He walks toward the bed until he comes to stand directly in front of it, looking down on the other wizard. Harry can’t see his eyes, but he captures the sudden tension in his shoulders, silent proof of how conscious Tom is of his presence, even if he’s trying his very best not to show it. 

Harry crosses his arms on his chest and taps rhythmically his left foot on the floor.

“You’ve said we were going to talk about it,” He whispers, voice low and calm even if his body is roaring with anticipation. “But we never did.”

Tom raises his chin up to meet his emerald eyes, causing mild shivers to run down his spine. He swallows silently, his mouth suddenly dry, blushing as Tom’s eyes follow intently the movement of his throat. 

His coal eyes bore into Harry’s once more, this time surprisingly more soft.

“Talk about what?”

_Alright, here it comes_ , he thinks, tightening his lips onto a rigid line while his eyes narrow slightly, as though studying the other wizard’s reactions. 

“You leaving.”

“We–”

“You leaving,” Harry cuts him off, patiently, correcting himself. “And the reasons why I can’t come with you.”

A heavy silence falls upon them; as they stare at each other, Harry starts to believe there is something Tom isn’t telling him. He stares at the way the oldest had set his jaw, his fingers clenching lightly around the cover of the book still resting on his lap, as though he had been pushed hard in the chest; his shoulders were shaking slightly and, suddenly, Harry could sense his magic shivering vociferously in his blood and heart. 

He doesn’t reach out, feeling that to move too close without Tom asking him to might be dangerous. He has never completely understood his own emotions when Tom’s magic shaked down his core and cried with such vivid intensity: a part of him was fascinated and mesmerized, attracted toward it like bees are to honey, another part of him was almost frightened – there was something that he would never be able to catch nor comprehend fully of Tom’s magic, neither of his soul.

He blinks, eyes wide open behind his glasses, surprised to see the plea lighting Tom’s usually so reserved and cautious features. Tom looks at him unblinkingly as he holds his left hand out, raising it toward him; his fingers stretched open, invitingly, as he whispers: “Come here.”

It wasn’t a demand, nor it felt like persuasion, but like an urgent call; a silent, bare pray that caused Harry’s heart to thud indomitably in his ribs. And as concern dawns on his face, he takes Tom’s hand with his own and sits down on the bed by his side, intertwining their fingers together while carrying the older wizard’s pale palm on his face, bringing his own cheek to rest against it.

“Talk to me, _Tom_.”

When Tom’s fingers start to fondle the soft skin of his cheek, a tender spike of his magic coming into contact with his own, he feels a warmth, mellow homelike longing to blend against his body, for their magic to merge together as one.

Harry leers at Tom when his fingers drift away from his skin, finding himself howling for his touch once more; knowing his face was burning, he turns to face him, his curious emeralds falling all over his body. Tom had crossed his legs on the bed and he has to bite his inner cheeks to fight the creeping desire to sit in the empty space separating one leg from the other.

But just as though the older wizard had read his thoughts, his legs spread wider and his arms come to embrace Harry’s waist, drawing him closer until he finds himself sitting in between his legs; heart pumping harder and faster than ever. 

“You know why I can’t take you with me,” Tom whispers husky, directly onto his neck, and Harry feels almost feverish; his eyes flickering behind his glasses as Tom’s lips come to rest against the soft skin under his jawline, right upon his beating point, drinking the throbs of his heart. “You feel it, as much as I do.”

He swallows heavily before slowly shaking his head as though to prove he didn’t know the answer – or, perhaps, that the answer was so obvious he decided willingly to ignore it, to disguise it for something else instead. But Tom was waiting for his words; and even though his face was hidden down his neck, he could feel the electric power of his magic as if it was running throughout his own blood. His breath against his warm skin felt like a wistful kiss.

“Is it my fault?” He asks, solemn, in a low whisper, taking a deep breath as his stomach gives a dreary and agonizing squirm. “I’m not strong enough, am I? I can’t match your magic yet.”

Tom tilts his head back so quickly Harry almost chokes on his own breath; his dark hair had fallen into his eyes with a sort of elegance that almost made him look damned. Staring out at the window of their room, so as not to look at him, Harry scratches the back of his neck, frowning bitterly. 

“No, Harry,” He hears him say, a twitch of anger in his voice; he feels a hand closing tight on his thigh with a pincerlike grip. “Your magic has never been more powerful. Unlike yours, mine–”

“What?” Harry cries, unexpectedly, his mouth wide open with genuine surprise as he turns his head to look for Tom’s eyes. But he wasn’t looking at him, his eyes were dazing out the window as well, just like his own were a moment earlier. “Yours? How’s that possible? I always feel it calling out for mine. I never–”

“Exactly my point.”

Harry winces, his glasses slipping down his nose, surprised by the sudden cold tone of his voice. 

Tom, perhaps sensing his stare on him, tilts his head to face him; their lips barely inches away from one another’s. With uneasiness spreading through his lungs, causing his breath to come out in quiet gasps, Harry shakes his head dimly, not wanting to believe him. But the oldest cuts him off once more; his voice sounds as though he would spring to his feet and leave at any moment, not able to bear the heavy truth being spoken out loud.

“It’s my magic that needs to grow stronger. Not yours.”

The grip has turned so tight that his thigh starts to feel numb. He blinks, noticing how Tom’s lips are shaking quietly, his face paler than usual; he doesn’t look threatening or angry – it was a kind of rage meant to himself, not to him. 

“My magic is keeping yours from evolving,” He hisses against his forehead; lips barely touching Harry’s lightning-bolt scar, poisonous hatred spilling from each of his words. “Do you understand now?”

A hint of danger hovers in the summer air as silence falls over them. 

Harry feels a hard lump rising in his throat as he raises his chin to search for Tom’s eyes, only to find him lost in his own thoughts, absent. He gazes at the snowlike skin of his neck, his clenched jaw, his soft and still shaking lips; he hasn’t released his hold on his thigh.

As a sudden sense of anxiety causes his stomach to give an awful squirm, he moves and jerks in his arms, kneeling in front of him; Tom’s hands shift to grab a hold on his shirt, perhaps not even realizing the gesture, enslaved by his own thoughts, frozen in place. The sudden realization of how difficult it must have been for him to face the truth on his own for _months_ makes Harry feel almost sick; he wishes he could travel back in time to have pressed this matter earlier instead of postponing it till their very last week together. 

“Tom?” He tries to call him, barely more than a hoarse whisper. When the oldest blinks slowly, but his eyes don’t come to meet his, he lifts both of his hands and cupps his cheeks gently, slowly rubbing them with his thumbs as an attempt to gather his attention and lucidity back. “ _Tom…_ ” 

Harry can feel Tom’s magic pounding and roaring frenetic in his blood, causing his own magic to warmer up in his body. He drifts his fingers down the older wizard’s chin, reaching the hollow of his neck – a sweet, nuanced warmth spreads throughout his limbs as he leans forward; his own senses clouding as he drifts even closer, their lips merely inches away, almost dreamlike, his throat suddenly parched.

“ _Harry…?_ ”

Tom’s voice, previously full of hatred, the coldness of his tone was almost touchable, is now merely a low, soft murmur; his body paralyzed by the intensity of his own stripped emotions. 

But Harry doesn’t give him the time to turn back, nor to question what is the matter with him, because he doesn’t want him to meditate on the eternal instability of his fears; and as his heart starts throbbing faster, he brings himself forward, pressing his own mouth upon the other’s. 

Their kiss is soft, warm and chaste; lips barely brushing, matching perfectly as though they were made to merge onto one another’s. 

He doesn’t know where all this is going to lead them, and he doesn’t know what the consequences will be – but Harry surrenders to him, inch by inch, cheeks burning up, heart throbbing untamenly in his ribs as though it’s about to explode in thousand little pieces; and Tom must feel it too, for he feels the rage and the shame in his magic morphing into a softer but excruciating hunger.

Harry’s heart ache tenderly as he tilts his head away, as though it was learning how to grow into a shape it was always meant to occupy. 

He blinks under his glasses, lowering his hands from his face and closing them into fists to bring his knuckles nudging on his own knees. Neither him nor Tom have closed their eyes during the kiss, and they’re now staring at each other – and rarely his gaze has been so revealing; always too disguised in his hiding. But Harry realizes now, with a disarming simplicity, that Tom is his not only because their magic have merged into one another’s years ago; Tom is his, willingly, because he had decided to be his as much as Harry had decided to be Tom’s, too. Tom belongs to him, in the same way Harry belongs to him; in a totalizing, unbreakable way. 

For a heartbeat, Harry finds himself too stunned by his own actions to say anything, to do anything; but Tom’s fingers wrap possessively around his wrists, keeping him in place as though he was afraid Harry could vanish any moment. 

“I’m sorry, I thought–”

“You’ll be the death of me, Harry.”

His mouth snaps shut as Tom’s hoarse voice hits warmly his lips once more, eyes staring down at him; he’s wearing the most cravingly expression Harry has ever seen impressed on him, prompting the youngest to bow his head and bring himself forward once more, as though any unnecessary verbal explanation from either of them would disturb the ethereal harmony of the moment. 

_How many times had Harry died without noticing?_

He sucks in his apology as Tom’s tongue licks soothingly his upper lip, making his blood spark; the shivers running down on his back are also Tom’s. He grabs the first thing he could reach, tugging delicately his hair as Tom captures his thin waist with both of his bare palms, nails pinching Harry’s skin under his shirt, pulling him closer, making him moan surprisingly, pleasedly, watery eyes flying open; and as his mouth open, his tongue meets slowly the other’s. 

They kiss for what feels like an eternity; languidly and patiently, exploring one another in a more intimate way, trying to calibrate their movement into a perfect rhythm with the other’s. Each kiss had its own flavor, each softly inch of bitten skin was covered with a faint, timid blush; each of Tom’s quiet groans was a caress, each of Harry’s muffled moans an invitation to satiate. Their tongues always met midway, Harry’s being slightly more awkward than Tom’s – their breaths merging, their bodies blending into each other’s; Harry’s hands ruffled his hair, then drifted on his shoulders as he found himself sitting on his lap, his own knees nudging on the mattress; Tom’s fingers capturing Harry’s quievering hips, then clutched on his thighs, lingered onto his back, his fingertips travelling up and down Harry’s spine, his nails scratching the soft skin of his neck as though he needed him so much he had to end him.

As Harry tilts his head away to test the separation of their mouths, gasping heavily for some air, he is surprised to find Tom panting silently, too – his glasses were foggy but he could glimpse the way Tom’s eyes were gleaming under him, more voluptuary than ever, dilated to the point Harry couldn’t spot where his irises began and where his abysslike pupils ended; his lips as sore and swollen as Harry’s.

He bends his shoulders, bringing his face onto the oldest’s neck; feeling his body as though it was being devoured by fever, cheeks and ears flushing deep-red, he shifts the tip of his nose lightly throughout the full lenght of the curve of it, inhaling his parchment and inklike scent, his own breath still coming out in wretched gasps. He hums, slow and deep, when Tom’s fingertips rub his stuck up hair at the back of his head; a soft movement meant to alleviate the phrenetic thubbing of his own heart – and perhaps, his too.

That night, as they held onto each other and kissed until sleepiness took over the both of them, Harry learnt not to fear the silence between them, but to let himself be consumed by it. 

  
  
  


**~~~~~~~~**

  
  


**_WINTER, 1942_ **

_Dear Harry,_

_I’ve been trying to write this letter all day long, unable to think of anything else. My mind wouldn’t let me rest. It seems I struggle to keep myself locked away from you._

_I can see you clearly; the movements of your body, your hands, the resoluteness of your magic, your flying. The idea of casting a Summoning Charm to call your Firebolt was brilliant. I wish I could have been there, there’s nothing more in the world I would have loved to witness. Have you guessed what the next task is going to be? Have you been able to open the Golden Egg and listen to the clue already?_

_I’m eager to learn more from you._

_Don’t keep me waiting too long._

_Yours,_

_Tom._

***

_Tom,_

_You can’t imagine how much it would hurt if you’d lock yourself away from me._

_Now, to answer your questions: no, no and once again, no! I wish I could have had the time to think about it, but the Yule Ball is approaching and McGonoball is all over the place about it. Can you believe we have to_ _practise_ _our dancing? I wish I could see the Slytherins practising their dance with Professor Slughorn, I bet that’d hilarious. But the problematic thing is that we must find a date, too! I’m expected to start the event dancing with my partner, alongside the other champions._

_You should have seen how Ron tried to ask Fleur out, he was so determined! He really thought he could make it, but he got rejected. As we all secretly thought, really. He then tried to ask Hermione, but she said she’s already got a date… I’m a little curious to find out she’s coming with, I’m not gonna lie._

_I don’t know who to ask. I thought about asking Ginny, or Luna, but… I don’t know, there’s something that keeps me from doing it. And it isn’t because it’s a date, because really, it isn’t to me. Obviously it isn’t. I don’t want it to be._

_But asking Ginny, Luna, anybody… every time I try to think about someone with whom to attend the Ball, it’s you the one I end up fantasising about. What do I do, Tom? What should I do with such yearning? How can I keep it in my chest without letting it speak to me?_

_Anyway, I don’t want to write just about myself! How is Egypt treating you? Have you made some progress with your studies? Do you know where you’ll be heading next? Don’t deprive me of the good fortune of your travels._

_Forever Yours,_

_Harry_

  
  


_***_

  
  


_My sweet Harry,_

_You don’t have to keep it in your chest, as my soul aches for yours, too. Sometimes I wish I could come back to swallow you whole, to keep you with me always; but the mere memory of your magic flowing through my veins, your lips on mine, is enough for me to keep my agony at bay._

_I can’t hide the jealousy nor the hatrated roaring deep down myself at the thought of having someone else’s hands holding yours, but it is not something I can control in the state I now find myself in, and I wish for you to choose the right partner. Perhaps I shall find some relief knowing your heart lies within mine, as there is not a thing of you that doesn’t belong to me._

_About Egypt. You would love it here. The magic hidden in the streets is something entirely different than for all other places I’ve previously visited. No even in Greece I’ve found myself being devoured by such a deal of knowledge. Each book I’ve been reading is something puzzling to me, as it would be for you, too. Yet, I’m not sure you would agree with few of the discoveries I’ve made. But I made you a promise and it is a desire of mine to keep it._

_I think my time here is coming to an end, I find myself being surprisingly mournful._

_I was growing rather attached to this place._

_Alongside this letter you will receive an inspiring manuscript I’ve translated about Magical Bonds. Think of it as a Christman present._

_Think of me._

_Yours,_

_Tom_

  
  


_***_

  
  


**_SUMMER, 1942_ **

The hottest days of summer were starting, bringing along their typical nostalgia, the dry air, the cicadas’s chant. They’ve celebrated the morning of Harry’s fifteenth birthday at Burrow, as they always have done since Harry started attending Hogwarts. Sirius, Remus and Harry came back home later in the afternoon, right after the cake and the presents; Harry’s jeans were torn and dirty because he’s been playing Quidditch with the Weasleys. 

As he brings his birthday gifts in his room, Harry feels his breath coming out in rough gasps as though someone has placed a heavy burden on his shoulders and he had to carry it all the way up his room, and wasn’t now able to get rid of it completely.

_Tom hasn’t written him a letter to wish him a happy birthday_.

Which it’s completely _fine_ , he’s been thinking the whole day, because it wasn’t much of a big deal; most probably Tom had other things in his mind, Harry couldn’t blame him – he didn’t want to, because there were more important matters to think about and focusing on such a little detail would have been a childish thing to do. 

He is no longer a child. He’s growing into a powerful, extraordinary adult. Even Sirius had told him, during breakfast on that very same morning, that as years pass he’s coming to look a lot like his father. Harry still remembers, as if it had happened yesterday, how Sirius called him _James_ ; it happened only once, by mistake, the day he came to pick him up at King’s Cross at the end of his 4th year.

_Nothing happened_ , he thinks as he starts to undress himself to get rid of his dirty clothes, the urgency to have a bath crawling inside of him, _It’s okay, he’ll write sometime soon, why on earth would something have happened?_

But as much as he tries to convince himself, his anxiety seems to find no peace. 

They weren’t romantically involved, weren’t they? Not officially, at least. They just kissed two summers ago. They kissed a lot, actually, two summers ago. But nothing went beyond their more or less chaste kisses; nothing had happened, and they never talked about it, as they have rarely talked about things regarding the nature of their relationship. 

In the eyes of others, they were childhood friends; they grew up together, lived together for a while, but that was it. Few people knew about the bond taming one to the other; but whether bond or not, Harry knows his feelings for Tom go beyond it. He’s attracted to him – and as years pass he is not only coming to look like his father, but he’s also growing more conscious of the nature of his own desires. 

He tormented himself each time he found himself smiling like a daft while reading one of Tom’s letters, when he awoke from a night spent dreaming about him, or when sometimes his mind brought him back to their last summer together, making him remember how kissing him had felt like, what it had tasted like – he tormented and mocked himself not because he found the idea of having feelings for a _man_ absurd, but because Harry and Tom have known each other since they were kids and perhaps he should have thought about him as someone closer to a brother, definitely as a lover. 

“That’s enough now, Harry,” He mocks himself, closing the bathroom’s door behind him and starting to fill the tub with water, bringing himself in front of the mirror as he waits patiently for the bath to be ready. A skinny boy looks back at him, his vivid bright eyes puzzled under his untidy hair. “What’s gotten into you?”

***

He lets himself float in the tiepid embrace of the water, trying to calm down. He feels feverish, his mind in turmoil. 

Harry brings his head to rest against the edge of the bathtub, gazing numbly at the ceiling. If he closed his eyes and pretended that Tom could have been there with him, would he appear like a ghost summoned by the living?

How he dreams for Tom to simply _Apparate_ in the bathroom with him. He’d ask him to take his robes off and come joining him in the water, he’d ask if Harry could touch him, testing his skin with the palms of his hands like he’s done in Cornwall, feeling his hair against his naked flesh, their legs intertwined; he’d ask him to cuddle up, perhaps to kiss once more. But he’s alone and somewhere else Tom is alone too. 

They are alone and he knows Tom must hate it, too, because it’s always themselves they fear being alone with. 

“HARRY JAMES POTTER!”

Almost as though his thoughts had fluttered through his mind and someone had heard them, Sirius’s loud and hitched voice from the stairs outside the bathroom’s door reached Harry’s ears, making him jerk with surprise, causing him to almost drown as his head slipped into the water.

“WHAT?” He yells back, as loud as Sirius has been, re-emerging from the water. He sits straighter in the tub, sputtering as he had swallowed a considerable amount of bubbles, rubbing the palms of his hands against his face to clean away the soap from his eyes.

“CAN YOU COME OUT?”

Harry represses a snort with difficulty; he stretches out his arms to search blindly a towel, while yelling back once more. “NOW? WHY, WHAT HAPPENED?”

“JUST COME OUT, HARRY!”

With a final groan, Harry hoirstes himself out of the bath, wrapping the first towel he has found firmly around his waist. As though someone had just pulled a plug in his stomach, he sighs while putting his glasses on, pushing his wet hair away from his eyes; the bathroom comes into clearer focus, lit by the orange light of the sunset that was being reflected through the windows. He rubs the towel around his body to dry himself quickly; then pulls a clean green shirt on, followed by a pair of jeans. 

With his hair still wet, water dripping down his neck onto his shirt, he opens the bathroom’s door, facing Sirius. His Godfather was waiting for him with his arms crossed on his chest; his face was taut and his eyebrow raised up in distressed – he had that serious look Harry has rarely seen in him, meaning that something has happened and he didn’t know how to deal with whatever problem had risen.

Harry opens his mouth, as though about to speak, but the older man pushes him by the back of his shoulders down the stairs, snarling a simple: “ _Downstairs_.”

For a mere heartbeat, Harry hesitates. But in the end his curiosity gets the best of him and he finds himself rushing down the stairs without Sirius needing to push him from behind. 

They both reach the main floor a few seconds later, creeping along the narrow corridor leading into the drawing room. Remus was standing just outside the room, leading casually against the door; hands inside his pockets. His lips were twisted in a scolding but soft grin and, unlike Sirius, he looked much more serene and composed, causing Harry’s lips to curl unconsciously into a smile.

“Haven’t I asked you to be nice and calm?” Remus asks softly, tilting his head to the side to look at Sirius. 

Sirius gasps and blushes, forcing his voice to be calm as he tauts: “I was!”

Harry looks from one to the other, smile sliding from his face; his mind was starting to race, his heart hammering fast in his ribs. 

He flungs himself into the drawing room, anxious, gritting his teeth as though trying to convince himself there must have been a reason why his heart was loudly thumping. 

“Can someone _please_ explain what the hell is going on?”

His breath catches, forcing him to go suddenly and coldly still. He feels himself wincing when a pair of dark, inky eyes meet his. 

That very same gaze skims patiently down on him, slowly, as though it was meant to absorb all details of his features and silhouette, only to drift right back up, darting penetratingly once more in his emerald eyes. 

“Happy birthday, Harry.”

Harry blinks, noticing with eyes wide open in pure and unsettling shock how Tom’s voice has changed – it sounds more mature and modulated; still husky and silkily, but somehow deeper and stronger in a pleasant, mysterious way. 

Tom was wearing a black, formal suit making his body look more lean and slim muscular build than ever; his arms were held behind his back. He had always been known for his good and heartbreaking looks and his skin hasn’t changed a bit, quite as pale as it had always been; but he got taller, much taller than Harry remembered, his shoulders are broader, and his hair have grown a little longer, yet still as perfect as the first day he had met him – and even though he still looks like someone in his early twenties, Harry can spot a new spark of wisdom and experiences in the depth of his eyes. His magic feels both _new_ and _primordial_. 

Feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on him, Harry finally manages to come back to his senses. He blinks again; once, then twice times faster. Tom is still standing, patiently waiting for him to react, brow up and jaw clenched. That _perfect goddamn shaped jawline_ Harry had kissed thousands of times, over and over, almost to the point of draining exhaustion. 

“You–” He tries to speak, but his voice is too thick and wobbly, wheezy. 

Something a lot like tears is making his eyes pinched and his own magic is tingling in his blood, suddenly overwhelmed by the nearness of the other’s, urging and begging Harry to draw closer to him. 

Tom smiles. And his smile is so elegant, so exquisite, he can’t bear it. 

Still breathing fast, eyes watering from the savageness of his emotions, he scrambles down the drawing room, dashing breathless toward him. Everything happens so fast he doesn’t even know how his knees haven’t failed him on his way to his body, finding a home onto his arms – Tom’s eyes narrow slightly, a delighted grin stretching over his face, following each rushed step of his; arms ready to welcome and hold him as Harry slammed his body against his. 

“You complete _arse_!” He whispers tremulous, wet and trembling lips touching the soft, warm skin of his neck; his hands roam over him ardently, reaching out for the hair at the back of his head, fingers clutching onto them as if he feared Tom could vanish into air at any moment. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

A silky, hoarse sneer redounds in his ears, causing intense shivers to run through the full lenght of his spine. He has to bite his inner cheeks to muffle a pleasant sigh when Tom wraps his arm around his waist, pressing him against his own body as though to leave no space between them, while running the fingers of his free hand through his hair, further disheveling it. 

“And where was the surprise in that?” He purrs silverly, tilting his head back to seek for Harry’s lively eyes; the lightest brush of his lips against his lightning scar. 

Neither of the two take not the slightest notice of Remus and Sirius as Harry stares right back into the face he’s been yearning and howling for. He presses both of his bare hands on his neck, fingers drifting gently to trace the full lenght of it, only to then follow his silhouette and cupping his fresh as snow cheeks – even with his eyes now closed, Harry can feel Tom’s shivers as though they are his own, running down his spine, like two lightning bolts with opposite charges attracted to each other. 

He feels Tom’s left hand pressing on his chest, adjacent to where his heart was hidden; a warm, tingling sensation spreads through him, eating him whole from the inside. His throat feels suddenly dry, his lips thirsty; he could feel their blood being warmed up by the throbbing of their magic. 

A mellow, soothing cough gets both of Harry and Tom’s attention. They don’t loosen their embrace, but their faces turn jointly to the side, facing the door. 

Sirius was looking at them in a puzzled way, but raptly as though he could meddle any moment, his brows raised up; Remus was still resting against the doorframe but he was now holding a hand on Sirius’s mouth, arm resting casually over his shoulders, perhaps to keep him from blurting anything that could have interrupted – or worse, broken – the intimacy of the moment. 

With his free hand, Remus pushes his graying hair out of his eyes with a lightness and elegance that belonged to him and only him. 

“Harry, I’m sure Tom would like to unpack his things,” He says, voice quiet and gentle. “Why don’t you help him? We’ve carried the cases up your room already.”

As Sirius leaps to his feet, making a derisive noise against the palm of Remus’s hand, he adds, turning his gaze to the side to give him a warning look: “Sirius and I are gonna make dinner in the meanwhile, aren’t we?”

Harry blushes, breathless, trying to hide the frenziness that shook his body from head down toes. He steps slowly away from Tom’s embrace, still looking at Remus and Sirius as though he needed some time to absorb what was happening; but as he curves his lips onto a soft smile and his gaze sweeps across the room, a sudden realization shapes in his mind.

Eyes wide open and glittering behind his glasses, he grabs the front of Tom’s suit, hands clenching in fists; knees threatening him to give up on the floor as he asks, hoarsely: “How long are you staying?”

Tom doesn’t wince, but his brows fly up; lips twisting in a cunning, sly smirk. 

“A week,” He says, his voice smooth and casual, without taking his eyes off him.

Harry’s lips twist into a more shyly smirk, trying to answer his with no actual verbal answer, and his grip somehow eases. 

He doesn’t know how much of his reaction he could reveal, so he quickly glances with his eyes to the side: Sirius stopped dead, paralyzed, clearly not knowing what to do nor to say, what little was left of his colour on his face had disappeared entirely; Remus, on the other hand, looked as quietly content as ever.

“ _Ah_ ,” Remus giggles, tilting his hand away from Sirius’s mouth. “Teenagers.” 

***

In the middle of a carnation flowers field, surrounded by evergreen trees and protected by the Wards Tom had laid up before their duel started, their spells rebound fiercely against one another.

Harry is panting heavily. 

Tom raises his wand and before the youngest could even blink, he had cutted the air downward, right towards him; quickly, the ground under his feet bursts open as though it had been sucked onto the center of the earth. Harry stumbles as the soil underneath him had begun to ripple apart – but with his innate reflexes, which only improved on his Quidditch training, he manages to fly himself sideways, avoiding to fall onto the opening hole.

He’s about to cast another _ventus jinx_ , but something he hasn’t seen coming captures him, grabbing him by the ankles and prompting him to fall on the ground. 

He rolls over as rowdy as a feline, trying to jerk himself free, but he’s trapped. Shaking uncontrollably, heartbeat raging in his ears, Harry quickly lowers his gaze, breathless, to glimpse at the black and robust roots creeping him toward the hole on the ground. His nails dig into the soil as he grunts outraged, more determined that he’s ever been in his life; teeth grinding and jaw clenching. His muscles are screaming, his lungs are aching and the grib of the roots around his ankles is strangling his skin to the point he thought his feet were about to be crippled.

Tom was standing a few steps away from him: the front of his shirt had been torn apart, revealing partially his bare chest, but his eyes were vivid and gleaming with excitement; sweat drops were running down the side of his temples. 

He has to think about something and do it quickly.

_Ignem,_ he casts nonverbally, looking down at the roots seizing his ankles; a shrilly and agonizing hiss fills the air for a brief moment as they start to burn and he frees himself from their grib, scrambling to his feet once more. _Ignem_ , he casts again; this time a jet of fire quickly rises and engulfs his wrecked body – Harry masters the blaze so naturally, as though the fire was an extension of his own very soul, and he shoots it straight at Tom; burning flames rumbling as wildly as a lion’s roar. 

The fire cuts through the air and for a single moment the oldest’s eyes are wide open in genuine surprise; yet, in a heartbeat, he calls upon water. The sky roars violently as dark and heavy clouds seemed to appear out of the blue and a rainfall swoops down upon the grass, saving him from the jet of fire and leaving the both of them soaked from head to toes.

Before he could recompose himself, though, Harry had already moved.

_“Expelliarmus!”_ He cries desperately, hoarsely; his heart is thundering in his ribs, pumping magic into his veins. But his spell intertwined in midair with a dark-lighting issued from Tom’s wand with a loud, cracking sound. 

As a blinding light encircles the two wizards, his wand starts to vibrate as though an electric charge was surging through it, forcing him to seize both of his hands around it. The _Priori Incantatem_ prompts the tip of his wand to glow and a few seconds later a coalesce of colors bursts untamed from it, echoing the spell he had casted during their duel; they emerge one by one, starting from his first _Flipendo_ and ending with his final _flame-control charm_. 

More beams arc over them, enclosing both in a familiar golden-shaped cage of light; the warmest and most beautiful sensation Harry had ever experienced in his life, as welcoming as a womb. He chokes on his own breath stuck down his throat, his eyes sparkle as though in front of a vision. Astonished, he follows the beam of light and a sly smirk twists his lips as he meets Tom’s fixed stare, intense enough to stun; the wand, gripped tightly by his long fingers, was shaking and vibrating, too, as he was concentrating every inch of his mind upon forcing the beams of light toward him. 

Harry hears the oldest’s frustrated groans as he focuses his magic to be still and fight against Tom’s beaming light, his ears full of both his and Tom’s frenetic heartbeat; slowly, the powerful beams start to head back onto him until the shining quiver, meeting a strong opposition, comes to a stable halt. Only then, simultaneously, as though they’ve read each other’s mind, they yank their wands away, breaking the stream of magic binding one to the other. 

The golden thread breaks and the cage of light vanishes; the sounds of both of their heartbeats in Harry’s ears die soon after. 

His head is swinging like a stormy sea, causing his knees to slam into the ground. Grunting, exhausted and still soaked wet, he lets himself fall with his back into the soil; the smell of carnation flowers filling his nostrils. 

“I’m _wrecked_ ,” He gasps slowly, as the adrenaline running in his blood begins to gradually fade, shielding his eyes from the rays of sunshine with his left arm, fighting against the soreness of his muscles. “If this is what happens when our wands can’t fight each other, I wonder what would happen if they could.”

He seeks Tom with his emerald eyes, but he must have walked closer to him as soon as he has fallen on the ground because Harry doesn’t have to search much. The oldest is now standing in front of him – and what little is left of Harry’s breath knocks out of him at the sight of him panting heavily; cheeks coloruded with an unusual deep-red, his wet and disheveled hair stuck on his forehead in a twist of both water and sweat. 

“You got stronger, too,” He utters quietly, trying to modulate his own breath, before fixing his torn shirt with a wandless spell. “Have you been practising on your own?”

Harry lips curl involuntary in a satisfied, cheerful smile. He’s always proud of himself when Tom compliments him for his strength – it is an unbearable turn-on he can’t fight, nor trying not to show, even because he knows how much Tom likes it, too. 

“Well,” He whispers, voice as thick as honey; he winks up at him, crossing casually his arms behind his head. “I need to challenge you myself, don’t I? You can’t be the only one studying to be stronger.”

Before his very eyes, Tom sneers. A moment of silence. 

Then, with the elegance and pace of a snake, the oldest hangs over him. Blinking under his glasses, Harry finds himself secured under him; arms holding his hands on top of his head – Tom’s fingers clenched so firmly around his wrists, Harry couldn’t stop an astound moan to escape from his lips, eyes wide open, dazzled. 

“You’ve always been so _imprudent_ ,” Tom purrs into his ear, teeth biting his lobe. 

Harry gasps and his shoulders wobble as a wave of warm pleasure shakes him from neck down his tummy, then further down, despise himself, directly onto his groin. He feels his body burning, as though the fire he’d previously summoned is engulfing him again, when Tom _thrusts_ against him – closing his eyes and jerking under the weight of his body, unconsciously seeking for more friction, he hears Tom humming against his ear, softly, pleased at his reaction; the grip on his wrists tightens, holding him in place, making him moan faintly onto his neck, under his chin, shifting under him to kiss every inch of his jawline with wet and open lips, hungry like a starved man. 

But he’s just teasing him. He’s taking revenge on him, he thinks when he deprives him of his touch, rolling himself at his side instead and freeing him from his hold, leaving him unsatisfied and begging for _more_. 

“Are you still thinking about becoming an Auror?”

Harry blinks, stunned, unable to move. He doesn’t turn his head to look at him because he can sense his eyes peering down at his face, intently, waiting for an answer. He gulps, trying to recollect himself and his self-conscience; he wonders how the same mouth that just a second ago was kissing his skin could have been able to speak normally, as nothing has ever happened.

“You’re still thinking about working for the Ministry?” He hears himself ask breathlessly; his voice was somehow still stuck at the back of his throat. 

Harry turns his head to the side, emeralds reflecting on the surface of the depth of his abyssinian eyes. Tom crunches over him, still not touching him as he smiles, slowly and mischievously; his voice deep, igniting him like a kiss. 

“I asked first, Harry.”

“ _Prat_ ,” Harry scoffs, heart pounding fiercely; then, frowning, he tries to gather his thoughts in his mind and to calm himself down. 

He licks his bottom lip, bites it restlessly, torturing the flesh, slowly.

“I would love to, really, but I don’t know. To become an Auror means you know what you’re fighting for, but also against. I know what I would be fighting for, it’s just that–” He stops for a moment as he inhales deeply, feeling Tom’s eyes penetrating right through him. “I don’t like the idea of killing. At all. Death sentences, no, not really my style.”

He turns his head to stare at Tom. His eyes are narrowed in a thouthfull look, gazing at the scar on his forehead; his lips strained onto a thin, straight line. 

“During a war, killing is a natural response to guarantee one’s survival.”

Their eyes meet and Harry feels his lips tremble slightly. He rolls on his side, propping himself by nudging his left elbow on the ground without taking his eyes off Tom’s, and brings his head to rest on the bare palm of his hand. The other wizard follows his movements ardently and Harry has to bite his inner cheeks not to avert the intensity of his gaze, trying to look as controlled as he could as contrasting and overwhelming sensations start to spread within his chest.

“Is it necessary, though?” He asks, in a quiet voice. “To save one’s life or yourself?”

Tom leers down at him for a moment, jaw slightly clenched. 

“Sometimes, it might be.”

“Would you kill to save a life?”

Tom’s lips suddenly light with an astute grin – but it wasn’t an evil grin, more like a benign ghost of a smile; a sense of power and noble delight radiating from his magic as though his heart was burning. 

“I’ve killed for less than that, Harry.”

Harry feels his mouth twisting and the ligaments of his neck stretching so tight and harshly for a moment he thought they could erupt out his flesh. 

“How did you feel?” He asks quietly, unable to stop himself. “When you killed Billie’s rabbit, how did you feel?”

Remus’s words echo and resound in his mind as he looks impatiently at Tom staring at the sky upon them, his lips twisted smoothly as though searching for the perfect answer. _Some people might tell you understanding is the first step to acceptance, Harry, but I’d rather say that acceptance is the first step to understanding._

“I felt good, Harry,” Tom whispers calmly, but his voice was rough. “But I had a purpose. There’s always a reason.”

Harry blushes softly, seized by a sudden feeling of intimacy – it is the way Tom looks down at him, slowly; irises shining with the dark fire of his soul, tinged with secret emotion he reserved for Harry and Harry only, as though only him could listen.

“It was more than simple revenge, wasn’t it? You wanted to scare him, to hurt him as much as he has hurted you. You wanted to be left alone.”

“Perhaps,” He hums softly, almost gentle. “Fear was a strong ally of mine back then.”

“No one should be treated like that. It doesn’t matter who they are nor what they’ve done,” Harry whispers softly; but, unlike Tom’s, his gentleness and tenderness is genuine. “Pain and fear aren’t the answer.”

Tom’s eyelids flickered for just a moment, astonished. Harry knows well enough he is the only person Tom can bear listening to in such a way – he has earned his respect through the years, both by proving him his own worth and power, but also by simply not judging him at priori, experiencing with him how things could have been different if he could wish for them to be; staying by his side, easing his pain as he has eased his. First he’s been a threat to him, then a mystery, later an equal, a confident, a friend; he became half of his essence when their magic merged into one another’s, taming them together, but the feelings that matured after were a different story. They were equals in the same way they were different and they knew each other too well to pretend they weren’t.

Harry feels his own body shivering as Tom casts an intrigued gaze at him; eyes narrowed, but not enough to look severe. 

“Fear and pain are inevitable,” He utters, before taking a deep breath, quietly as though wanting to make the minimum sound. “We need to learn how to master it, to evolve and overcome it.”

Harry snorts delicately. He nods once, only once, before raising his hand and letting it find a home on Tom’s chest; he raises and shifts himself closer to his body, but Tom meets him halfway as he sits on his bum, grabbing his waist with his hands. 

In a heartbeat, Harry finds himself sitting on his lap.

“Pain is only physical,” He whispers, breathing against his lips. He strokes the tip of his own nose against his, slowly, running upward through the soft curve of it, inhaling deeply his smell. “But our emotions are endless,” He hums, bringing his lips to brush lightly against his forehead, kissing it devotedly. “And they can make us stronger, if we only let ourselves listen.”

Tom sits still under him, keeping his eyes closed and tightening his grip on Harry’s waist as though each word was sinking down onto his skin. They are so close Harry can count his lashes – there’s a wrinkle in the center of his forehead, delicate but thoughtful; and even though he was at ease in Harry’s hold, his shoulders were quivering slightly.

“I want to ask you something.”

Tom breathes quietly, holding him in place. “Ask it away, then.”

Harry drifts his hands over his body, twining his arms behind his neck as he moves himself flush against him, toying with his hair around his fingers. 

“Do you still think about the horcrux?”

Tom seems to recoil a bit. He blinks his eyes open to seek for Harry’s emeralds, pulling his head slightly backward to face him properly; a silky grin spreads across his face as he answers, sincerely. 

“Sometimes.”

Harry hums slowly, bowing his head and kissing both of his cheeks as though to thank him for his honesty. He shifts his hands, touching his face with his fingertips.

“And do you think you could conceal part of your soul into a living object?”

As though he wasn’t expecting such a question, for a moment Tom looks too appalled to speak. He shakes his head slowly, confused, while stroking Harry’s lower back with his thumbs; his brows furrow under Harry’s fingertips.

“A living object?”

“A human body,” Harry nods resolutely, cradling the back of his head once more as he peers down at him, eyes gleaming from behind the glasses. “Because I’ve read the book you’ve read, too, _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ , and I was thinking–”

Tom flinches under him, eyes opening wide with genuine surprise as he cuts him off to ask: “When?”

Harry rolls his eyes theatrically, pretending to be annoyed when pressing his index finger on Tom’s lips, only to receive a mocking sneer in response. 

“Let me finish!” He hoots, blunterly. Tom tilts his head to the side, staring at him in silence, prompting him to sigh before continuing, breathing barely a few inches away from his lips. “I know the book suggests to use inanimate objects only to have less chances of it being destroyed. You kill the vessel, you kill the soul inside of it. But what if the human vessel is _strong_ , even if _human_? Perhaps, what if you could–”

Harry sucks his breath and words in as Tom suddenly clutches him closer; his nails dig deep into the flesh, finding their way under Harry’s shirt, making him shiver and moan – with either pain or pleasure, or both, he doesn’t know – and his fingers hold his waist so strenuously he wonders if his grip is going to leave some bruises. 

“You’re wondering if I could conceal part of _my_ soul into _you_?” He asks quietly as a cold grin curls his lips, eyes immersed onto Harry’s as his hold toughens even more.

Harry shudders despite himself, tensing with expectancy. His body doesn’t jerk under his hold as he leans closer, stroking Tom’s cheekbones with his knuckles; he licks his lips slowly before opening his mouth, ready to speak – but Tom, having followed the movement with his vivid eyes, capturing the motion, cuts him off.

“You _fool_ . There isn’t enough information about such a thing to be considered,” He grunts promptly, sounding both bewildered and anxious, as though unable, or unwilling, to suppress his crippling fervor. “We know nothing and the consequences could be devastating. It’s too _dangerous_.”

The younger wizard snorts again, this time more rude and indelicately, as he usually does for things he doesn’t agree with. 

“Since when dangerous things have stopped you?” He snaps smoothly, a lump in his throat; his hands tighten around his collarbone and his body feels feverish as he tries to chase any emotional changes in his features. 

But Tom seems unsure about how to deal with the situation. 

Their eyes meet and a brief silence falls over them; Harry blushes, locking their gazes together as Tom loosen his grip on his waist, causing him to release a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding. 

Tom looks down on Harry’s hands on his body, allowing them to remain where they are; he is as fascinated as he is repulsed – but Harry can sense his magic calling for him, vibrating under his touch as he takes a hold of Tom’s hand, raising them both up his mouth and starting to kiss every inch of his fingertips, bringing him to hum in velvety appreciation. 

“They stop me the moment they concern you.”

Harry gasps and his lips freeze against the back of Tom’s left hand, right on one of his knuckles. He falters as Tom drifts both of his hands away, bringing them back on Harry’s waist to press him closer against his body; a soft numbness engulfs him, a newborn sensation tears him sweetly apart like the caress of a dagger – he smiles faintly, meeting his solemn and serious gaze, and for a moment he thinks even kissing couldn’t get so far.

He doesn’t know what got over him, but he doesn’t fight it; rather, he lets himself go as though to show him how overwhelmed Tom makes him feel. 

Harry leans forward and cupps his cheeks, allowing their forehead to rest against one another. 

“Then I want you to know that I will never accept you hurting your soul,” He utters, soft and low, lips brushing slightly and delicately against each other’s. “I never had, I never will. And if one day you’ll want to do it, I want to–”

“–to be the vessel of my soul?”

“–to do it, too.”

Tom’s body tenses under his, stunned. His breath was crashing in muffled gasps against Harry’s lips, following a perfect rhythm with the beat of his own heart; each breath an incision in Harry’s heart – because Tom has always left marks all over him, inside out, and Harry knows that’s his way to let him know he was loved. 

Harry wants to be burned, stamped, to be left with something of him inside; to carry his heart, like he carried his. 

_You who demolish me, you whom I would die for. You whom I love._

He doesn’t understand what is happening; it seems as though an ancient emotion is resurfacing after a long period of hibernation. Perhaps he’s admitting something he will never be able to take back; but what better time as any to show him that, _yes_ , life might not turn out to be easy for neither of them, that to conquer their fears is the greatest challenge they might ever have, that things might have rushed them onto something out of their own control, but it was now too late to step back from what they are, from what they have already shared and from what they hope and crave to more share? 

He cups his cheeks, tilting his head slightly to the side as he speaks slowly, as though to taste his own words on his tongue.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” He whispers, both breathless and audacious, while brushing his lips on the left side of Tom’s mouth, feeling his lips open slightly under his touch as a response, chasing after him. “But if I could choose a way to die, I’d like to die trying to keep your soul as whole as it is now. So be my vessel, and I’ll be yours.”

But Tom flinches. He shakes his head resolutely, causing his hair to fall disheveled on his face, over his left temple, and his lips to drift away from Harry’s; he closes his eyes and inhales deeply, as though to invoke what was remaining of his self-control.

“Just minutes ago you said you wouldn’t like the idea of killing.”

Harry blushes, suddenly thunderstruck; not by truth in his words nor by the gravelly sound of his voice – but by the sincerity of his own thoughts, the wildness of his deepest desires. He is him, as he also is not; but he’s also Tom’s; because without him, his whole life would fall apart. Not because he couldn’t live without him, but simply because he would wish not to live without him, willingly, though life without him would have had no meaning. 

Death, compared to a life without Tom, would be a kiss.

“I would,” He breathes, as hoarse as ever. “If it means to save your life.”

Tom’s cheeks suddenly flush with a deep-alarming red; his nostrils shiver quietly, eyes shining with the fire of hunger as his fingers shift under Harry’s shirt, claiming the feverish skin on his hips. 

“You know,” He whispers roughly, making Harry wonder how his voice can possibly sound this attractive even in such a moment. “I would never do something that brings you at risk like that.”

At that, Harry softens. He hums pleasantly under the craving touch, now contrasting his previous more insistent and brutal grip, and brings his fingers to run through Tom’s hair, pulling them back from his temple. 

“Would you really hate it so much?” He asks, in a low voice, before closing his eyes and licking Tom’s upper-lip with his tongue; he flushes when Tom grunts, deep and rich, his mouth wider as though to allure him in. “To have my soul inside of you, yours in me?”

Suddenly, Tom turns them over and he finds himself being pushed flat onto his back, right onto the ground. The oldest is looming over him and he doesn’t hesitate: he grabs Harry’s wrists with the fingers of one hand, letting the fingers of the other find their way down his body, making the boy’s head spin. As his weight comes down upon him, he doesn’t hold back a _wrecked_ moan when Tom rocks against him. 

He jerks briefly in surprise, eyes wide open and glittering with astonishment behind his glasses, but he doesn’t fight the vertigo. 

“What about you, _uh_ ?” He purrs against his lips, voice as seductive as Harry has never heard; it isn’t a tone of command, nor a mock, but pure and heartbreaking _desire_ . “Do you want me so desperately inside of you, _Harry_?”

He swallows. He tries to absorb the overwhelming sensations and burning shivers Tom is bringing him as his lips brush against the scar on his forehead, shifting down to kiss his temple, reaching further down his cheeks, his thin jaw; slowly, he finds his way down Harry’s neck, biting and sucking the soft skin behind his ear. And Harry can’t resist him, can’t fight the tremor of his own body as he presses himself against him, chasing his mouth, bending under his hands, sighing desperately against his skin, leaving no space between them but the one imposed by their clothes. 

He wants him. He has never wanted something or someone as much as he wants him; it must be him – because it has always been him. It will always be him.

His legs wrap urgently around him and his hips thrust eagerly against Tom’s, bringing him to groan hoarsely against Harry’s chin. The fingers wrapped around his wrists tighten to the point his grip is almost painful; but in the passion of the moment, as a sense of dizziness makes him lose what little has left of his patience, Harry jerks free of his hold, tugging his hands on the hair at the back on his head to guide him closer, up his lips. 

He blinks at Tom’s sly smirk before closing his eyes, panting slightly, drowning devotedly in the devastating sensations of their erections thrusting against one another’s, hidden under their clothes. Their lips merely touch and Tom’s breath collides onto his, merging with one another’s as a whole; the sudden adrenaline from their duel reemerge within a rush, bringing Harry to cry out against his mouth as they kiss briefly.

Then, emptiness. Again.

Harry doesn’t have the time to blink his eyes open, because Tom’s voice finds his ear. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” He hears him whispering, low and husky, making the blood in Harry’s veins burn as though a powerful spell has been inflicted on him. 

Abruptly, he shuts his eyes open and Tom returns gradually into a clearer focus. 

He raises himself quickly away from Harry, leaving him wretched with dissatisfied pleasure, limbs still trembling from the intensity of their embrace. He isn’t sure he could stand for the way his knees are shaking; he can’t feel his legs, nor his feet or belly. Gasping for air, he tilts his head up, meeting Tom’s amused grin.

He snaps, hysterically. 

“You _bastard_ !” He yells, somehow managing to hex him _wandlessly_. Never has he loved the wards so much.

But Tom casts a nonverbal and wandless _Protego_ , diverting Harry’s shot of _jinxes_ and _hexes_ directed at him. Their eyes meet and Harry’s body reacts as though it has a life on its own – he rises on his feet, bringing himself to stand and rush in his direction, sending each step a new _jinx_ at him even though he had his shield up. 

Tom laughs, not stepping away; his grin had wider gradually at each new hex, until it broke into a genuine laughter. It is the first time Harry hears his laughter after a time that feels like an eternity – it was a rasping and harsh sound, like glass shattering under bare feet, contrasting his usual so perfectly composed manner; it was imperfect, so imperfect and flawed, that to Harry sounded whole. Filled with life.

He had stopped without realizing he had stopped with his hands still raised midair. 

Harry blinks, recoiling his senses as a deep flush spreads all over his face, prompting Tom to smirk faintly down at him – his lips full with unveiled mirth. He vanishes his shield when Harry lowers his arms, stepping slowly toward him. 

They come to stand in front of one another. Tom raises his arms and he doesn’t avert his gaze, keeping his eyes slightly open as the older wizard leans in, dragging his forehead against Harry’s. 

Harry swallows, throat suddenly dry, and shivers helplessly. He inhales quietly, then, when Tom’s eyes grow serious and thoughtful; his hands shift, running upward his arms, dragging up to curl over his shoulders, fingertips sinking into the soft flesh on his neck. 

“I promise you,” He whispers, low and deep, against his lips; he closes his eyes, bringing Harry to close his own in response. “I’ll think about your proposal.”

He doesn’t have to say anything else, then, as their lips finally meet and crash eagerly against one another’s. The youngest makes a soft but rich sound, feeling his ache, the same he himself is feeling, as he licks Harry’s lower lip, asking for silent permission. 

And Harry allows it, opening his mouth so that their tongues could merge with one another, slowly; his heart scattering under the weight of the other’s, the sweet taste of surrender. 

**~~~~~~~**

**_OCTOBER 1944, PRESENT STORYLINE._ **

Warm, splinters of memories gilt like crystals in his mind, where time’s logic and chronology overlap. Memories of old and never vanished emotions, a pale sheen across his lids. _Why these memories? Why now?_

Four months. Four months have passed since Tom’s latest letter. Last time they exchanged letters he said he was on his way to Paris. For all Harry could have known, Tom spent a year in Albania – then, nothing. Harry has been worried sick ever since, feeling suspended on a swayed, unstable bridge: his mind couldn’t focus on anything else; it couldn’t go neither back nor further. He couldn’t get Tom out of his mind and flesh, not even during classes nor Quidditch practices.

Time was passing and he was hating himself for the total lack of initiative, for not knowing what to do, for not knowing exactly how much he needed to worry, for not knowing where to start looking for him; he would sell his soul to know anything about Tom, where he’s been, if something has happened, if he was doing okay, if he found someone better and decided to move on, if someone attacked him, if he changed his mind about the horcruxes, if—

“Harry?”

Harry’s eyes shut open. He blinks, finally, glimpsing some consciousness of his surroundings. 

He was laying on the grass of the Quidditch’s field, large creamy clouds were slowly moving in the orange-pink sky; an October day of rare mildness.

For a moment he thought he’d done accidental magic without meaning to, despite the fact he feels it now running in his veins normally, balanced and controlled. Then his reason finally caught up with his senses: he can’t move, his muscles are sore and the blood from his nose is flowing, hot and wet, all over his face. He tries to cough; his lower lip is bleeding, perfectly cutted open. 

He raises his left hand to fix his glasses, somehow relieved to find something in place. 

“Mate?”

Ron’s voice makes his head turn, finally realizing what happened. 

_Did I fall from my broom?_

He sighs heavily, his hips refuse to move as he tries to stand up, quirking with pain. Ginny must have noticed as she quickly holds out a hand, smiling faintly as though wanting Harry to hold it; and he does so, trying to sit once again and this time succeeding thanks to Ron’s and Ginny’s arms sustaining him from behind his back.

He looks quickly around: his teammates are looking at him with twists of concern and surprise. Katie Bell is beaming and twisting with a mix of apprehension and misery, Alicia is gawking at him suspiciously. 

“What happened?” He manages to ask, in a low voice, tilting his head to the side as he slowly welcomes back his senses and some body-control. He feels so stupid as he grabs a hold on Ron’s arms, his friend helping him to stand up. He shakes the laziness of his limbs off, looking directly in Ron’s gleaming eyes as he moves into a more dignified, erected standing position. 

He’s about to ask again but Ron holds out his hands and starts moving them energetically around, miming quickly while speaking, making Harry more dizzy that he already is. 

“We saw you falling, everything happened so quickly. I thought you fainted but you casted a wandless spell right before you could hit the ground. _What the hell_ , Harry?”

He’s about to reply when George finally steps into the crowd, shivering with terror.

“I’m sorry, Harry. It was my fault. I hit you with the Bludger.” He says; his voice is shaking, so are hands and lips, and his eyes move nervously around. “I’m so sorry.”

Harry moves a hand with a dismissive motion, attempting to calm him down. He gets closer, reaching out to shake friendly him by the shoulders. 

“It’s okay. It’s my fault, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Alright, boys,” Ginny exclaims, finally granting everybody’s attention as she claps her hands to the air and steps back to her broom. “I think that’s enough for today.”

***

  
  


“I swear, Harry. You weren’t yourself today. Are you sure about playing tomorrow? Why don’t you sit this one out?”

“I know I wasn’t. But I’m fine now.”

“But _why_ weren’t you? Is it Riddle _again_?”

Harry scoffs and rolls his eyes dramatically, tamponing his lower lip with the neck of his Quidditch uniform. 

Ron doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t seem to require an answer, even though he’s waiting hopefully for his friend to say anything back. By the way his jaw is clenched and his teeth are torturing his lower lip, Harry can tell he’s trying his very best to stop storming with questions. 

They are walking towards the Gryffindor’s tower, Harry’s breathing somehow turning easier with each step closer to their dorm. 

He knows he wasn’t being himself, he _damn_ wasn’t; he didn’t even feel like himself anymore and he knows it’s because of his obsession and protectiveness over Tom. One moment he was thinking about him, the next he was lying unconscious on the Quidditch’s field. He’s losing his mind; and the most terrifying thing is that he _knows_ he is, he can feel it happening and he doesn’t know what to do about it– he doesn’t even know if he wants to help it, if he wants to end it from happening in the first place.

He needs to write to Sirius, he thinks as he lets a soft, downhearted sigh escape his split lips, jeering with pain as he does so. And perhaps he should stop by in the infirmary before heading to dinner – Ginny fixed his nose with an _Episkey_ , but his bottom lip was still bleeding and all the previous and now-dried blood was still over his face.

When they finally enter the Gryffindor common room, welcomed by soft and warm lights, Hermione promptly stands up from the couch, turning to the boys. She looks distressed and Harry catches the sight of her effortlessly since the room is almost empty, except for some first years warming up in front of the fire. 

“Where have you been?” She snaps – half-exasperated, half-concerned – rushing quickly over the two boys. Ron and Harry quickly catch each other’s eyes as Ron stays still and Harry takes a few steps back, still recovering from his fall and not having the energy to deal with the hurricane the witch seems about to blast. “I’ve been looking for you the entire afternoon. And what happened to you?” She cries restlessly, pointing directly at Harry’s lips with one finger.

“Quidditch practice,” Harry mumbles, covering his mouth with the fabric of his shirt while looking at her incredulously. “What happened?”

Hermione looks at him once more before blinking away, looking anxious. 

“There’s a new DADA teacher.”

Silence falls over them. Ron breaks it first, giggling nervously as he rubs the back of his neck, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. 

“A new DADA teacher? But Dumbledore suspended all DADA classes until next term!”

“What about Dumbedore’s Army?” Harry presses on, stubbornly. 

“Oh, Harry. Forget about your _damn_ Army for a second!” Hermione cries, frustrated. 

There are times where Hermione makes him feel a squirming mixture of annoyance and embarrassment – this is one those. But before he can respond, perhaps showing his hurt, she speaks again, this time confidently: “ _Tom_ is the teacher. Tom Riddle.”

Harry’s world falls apart. He feels the frenzied pounding of his own heart; his mind is lacking oxygen, as if stuck on repeat like a vinyl in one of those Muggle’s gramophones. 

_Tom is here?_

He feels as if he’s been awakened from a nightmare to crawl into a dream.

“Tom Riddle? At Hogwarts?” Ron asks, looking very surprised as he demonstrates a bewildered hand gesture. 

Harry’s mind is racing; he gives an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he’d been doused in icy water. Goosebumps had erupted up his sore legs and feet.

_It’s impossible… He couldn’t be here…_

“I was in the Headmaster’s office when he walked in. I didn’t recognize him at first, but then Dippet called him out and believe me, I—Harry? _Harry_!”

For the second time in less than an hour, he felt as if his heart had been cleaved in two. Next moment, he was rushing out of the Gryffindor’s common room, racing down the stairs and into the school’s corridors as he felt a jolt of dread running down his spine. 

He’s _running_ , he realizes. He thinks he has never run this much in his entire life. 

He runs as if his life depended on it. 

He wishes he had the time to feel stupid about it, reckless and childish, but he doesn’t – he doesn’t, as his heart is about to explode in his ribs, his legs scream with pain, his knees tremble at each jump, his teeth bite ravenously the damaged flesh of his bottom lip, making the cut bleed once more. But he doesn’t stop running; he was running so fast he couldn’t even keep the exact number of people he jumped into, the amount of _“Watch out!”_ he received.

His stomach was turning over. The sound of his pulsing temples was filling his ears.

He reaches Dumbledore’s office in what felt like a heartbeat, quickly knocking four times in a row without even trying to gasp for some air. He’s painting heavenly, deeply; his eyes watering with pain as his lungs ache in agony. 

He doesn’t even have the time to fix his Quidditch uniform, as a docile _“Come in”_ from the inside invites him to enter the room. 

He bursts the door open with his head straight up; as he rushes in, his eyes fall directly on the old man standing casually composed in front of him, behind his desk. 

Dumbledore peers at him through his spectacles, smirking softly, his voice sounding distant and dim. “Oh, Harry. How nice to see you here. I was going to—”

“Is it true?” He cuts across him shortly, seized by a sudden anxiety; all his senses vibrating. 

Dumbledore’s eyes lingered a moment behind Harry’s shoulders, before looking up at him with apprehension. 

“What’s true? Harry, you’re bleeding.”

What a stupid situation to have landed himself in: he was standing still with the cut on his lip still open, drenched in sweat; the blood was dripping filthy down his chin. 

But he doesn’t care. 

A feeling of misery spreads through him as he steps closer to the professor’s desk. 

“Is Tom at Hogwarts?” He asks, shock and dread in his voice. “He is, isn’t he? And why is he taking you place?”

“Harry—”

“Sir., _please_. Tell me,” He cuts across the man once more, desperately crying out a breath too much. “Did something happen to him? He hasn’t written to me in a very long time, I didn’t know anything about this. I was—”

His rant of questions gets interrupted by a cough on his left. He turns quickly to the side, feeling his knees shake as if they’re about to collapse to the ground. 

_Tom_.

He freezes on the spot.

Tom is looking sceptical down at him, a brow raised. 

He’s wearing a black robe; his skin as pale as chalk and snow. As Harry looks at him, not being able to look away, he feels agonized by an excruciating nostalgia: his mind is invaded by ancient memories, his emotions allowing overwhelming sensations to reemerge deep within himself; his heart rebels frantically in his ribs, contrasting the stillness of his body, beating as fast as the wings of a hummingbird. 

Tom is looking at him like a starved man, his eyes are fixated on the blood dripping down on Harry’s lips. 

Harry stands there, his eyes wide with stupor, in pure contemplation; his heart is pumping uncontrollably. 

He inhales deeply and Tom winces, tilting his head to the side and narrowing his eyes as he asks, hoarsely: “What happened to your face?”

Harry’s magic vibrates in the room, startling the other two men. He feels as if his body was generating waves of emotions so powerful it seemed incredible the room wasn’t set on fire. The anxiety and confusion leave suddenly place to anger, euphoria, resentment and curiosity – everything was bubbling inside of Harry, it was overwhelming. His chest might explode, he thinks as his heart pirouettes greedily; his fingers stretch, forcing him to clench his fists to hold onto something to prevent himself from falling to the ground; nails digging deep into his palms. 

Tom must misunderstand the motion, because his eyes wide with astonishment. 

Even Dumbledore must have sensed the tension in the air, as he is now turning on the spot and walking away from his desk. 

“Perhaps you two would like some privacy,” He says, his voice barely a whisper as he walks in the direction of the door. He stops suddenly when he comes closer to Harry’s side, perhaps desiring to comfort him; instead, his eyes glare over his shoulders, humming thoughtfully as he glimpses at Tom’s crossed arms on his chest. “You may have my office, I’ll see you both at dinner. But we should discuss your training methods’ another time, Harry,” He says calmly; and before Harry could have said anything, before he could have even blinked, he left the room. 

Silence falls awkwardly upon the two wizards. 

The candle’s flames in Dumbledore’s office illuminate Tom’s face, giving it more rosy and much softer connotations, brushing his hair copper, tiny red-raven waves reflecting the dim light. Harry wonders briefly if they’d still feel the same between his fingers.

Tom is looking at him – he never stopped looking.

“No hug, then?” He asks quietly, as charming as ever as a smile curls the corners of his mouth. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off Harry’s as he starts walking closer, destroying the distance separating him from the younger wizard. When his smile broadens, a twist of amusement enlightening his moonlight-gloom eyes, Harry explodes. 

He rushes in his direction, losing patience. Tom’s eyes never avert his. 

He grabs a hold on Tom’s robe and jerks him forward, tilting himself up as he steps on his own toes to reach his height, whispering with bare teeth as he tries to keep his voice steady, but failing to hide his disbelief: “Are you mental?”

Tom’s eyes glint, a hungry and ravenous look in them. 

Harry’s mouth had gone dry. 

“What’s wrong with you—” He purrs softly, raising a hand to brush Harry’s left cheek. 

“What’s wrong with me? Seriously, _Tom_?” Harry asks furiously; half-scolding, half-frustrated, quivering with anticipation. “You haven’t replied to any of my letters for the past—I don’t know, four months? Do you realize how sick worried I’ve been? I literally begged Sirius to have someone from the Order search you up, I even volunteered myself. When Hermione said you were here I thought something has happened to you, something must have happened to you for you to show up at Hogwarts without even telling me, and I—”

His voice breaks, forcing him to finally gasp for air. 

Tom’s eyes fell on his lips while he was talking, perhaps _shouting_ , and never moved.

His expression grew hungrier. 

Harry quivers as he glimpses Tom’s eyes starting to move, catching the leisureliness with which he languidly raises his gaze once again. Tom doesn’t move, he doesn’t even try to get away from his hold. If anything, he leans closer; his face shivering with a twist of amusement and delight – the look of a hunter.

“I missed you too,” He whispers, husky and sensual. 

Tom’s cool and tapered fingers start caressing his chin, drifting over his cheeks, the hollow of his neck; Harry’s blood streams into every inch of skin being lapped by his touch. He has to bite his lower lip – keeping himself from hissing with pain as doing so – to stop himself from closing his eyes and relax under the older wizard’s touch.

Harry has always been smart enough to pay attention to details, to what was not obvious at first to the eye. He has always noticed things that others, on average, did not see – his Seeker’s reflexes have their roots into this ability of his: noticing a golden glow darting meters and meters away from him, flying fast in his direction like a hummingbird, being able to trap the snitch, pulsating with life and eager to get free from his hold. This ability has brought his two main abilities: the first being the Quidditch Cup during his first and third year; the second, gaining the ability to extricate himself from Tom’s dirty tricks.

“As if you’d come back just because you missed me,” He whispers, flushing; his voice now shaking. Seized by the desire to touch him, to hold him closer, he presses his forehead against Tom’s. 

_He knows he would. He’s done it before._

Tom hums softly, breathing against Harry’s skin as he smirks, genuinely amused; he was looking alertly at him like a poisonous snake, peering at him through his lashes, both bewilderment and attraction impressed on his expression. 

_Vertigo’s call._

“That, Harry, is rude.”

“And you’re shameless, Tom,” He answers calmly, staring at him with honest eyes; he raises his hands to quietly caress his shoulders, tilting his head away before asking again, this time more determined. “What happened?”

Tom doesn’t reply. Instead, he captures Harry’s chin with his fingers and guides him closer once more; his lips almost touch Harry’s as he breathes out: “I’ll tell you everything you need to know, I promise.” 

He then doesn’t give him the time to reply, as he casts a wandless cleaning spell to remove Harry’s dried-blood from his face. He shivers surprisingly and moves his hands away, freeing Tom from his holds – but Tom catches his hands, intertwining their fingers together as he brings Harry’s palms up to his face, adjusting them on his cheeks. 

Harry smiles tenderly, cupping his cheeks; thumb caressing his high cheekbones. 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” The older wizard says quietly, smiling pleasantly as he closes his eyes to deeply inhale Harry’s spicy essence. “These months have been pure chaos and I couldn’t reveal my location.”

“Where were you?”

“Paris. On my way back to London when the attacks began. I thought the French Ministry of Magic could use a little extra-help.”

Harry shivers with terror, his magic seems unraveling, untamable; Tom feels it too as he starts to gently stroke Harry’s hair at the back of his head, reaching his neck to rub the skin under his ear as if to alleviate the tension.

Harry holds his breath for a moment, before finally asking: “Were you—?”

“I’m fine.”

“Did you see him? Grindelwald?”

“He came to me.”

“He did what?” Harry spats abruptly, eyes wide open with surprise; his own magic on the verge of outbreak. 

Harry’s brain seems to have jammed: he started to breathe deeply, his smile disappeared from his lips to be replaced by a bitter and rattier look. The thought of Grindelwald near Tom made his blood flow faster, his heart compressing in his chest. 

Tom glimpses at Harry’s suppressed rage, dwindling the magic coming off his body. 

Harry wonders if he’s thinking he got stronger, if he grew fiery and tenacious; he wonders if could feel his magic as pure as it ever has – but Tom’s magic has changed, too. He can sense it pulsating in Tom’s blood as if it was his: it feels more severe, stormy and ferocious, but still whole, like a primitive eye of the storm. 

Tom casts a rigorous look at Harry’s eyes before moving his eyes further down his bloody lips as he speaks. 

“He wanted me to deliver a message. To Dumbledore.”

Harry’s magic is vibrating, his body is shaking. The room starts to tremble. 

Tom has to pull out from Harry’s partial-embrace to hold his hands over his shoulders, keeping him in place, sinking his nails into his skin over the fabric of his shirt. 

“What did he tell you?” He asks, his quiet voice full of hatred. 

Harry allows Tom’s fingers free to wonder down his bottom lip, dabbing on the open and still-bleeding cut, making Harry quietly hiss with pain. 

“ _Later_ ,” Tom whispers, moving his free hand as if to push the less important matter away; he then brings the very same hand on Harry’s chin, guiding him to raise his head up as he leans closer. 

Harry opens his mouth as if to speak, ready to insist, but the words die quickly on his tongue.

Tom is _licking_ the cut on his bottom lip. Harry stands still, breathing in as much air as possible as he closes his eyes, bending under the older wizard’s touch, letting a shaking _sigh_ escaping his mouth as he unconsciously opens it wider. Tom’s fingers on his chin hold him in an iron fist, while his free hand grabs the lower of his back to keep him in place, making Harry moan with sudden surprise; he donates himself to him like a receding wave, returning to merge with the ocean.

They are so close his scent is making Harry’s head spin: the smell of ink and parchment is as delicate as a dream; but the desire is real, excruciating. He should be ashamed – he thinks as Tom bites his lip, as he sucks his torn flesh, inhaling the rough moan coming out from Harry’s throat as Tom answers with a soft groan, biting his bottom lip more fiercely, tightening the grip on his back – he should be ashamed to bend himself under Tom’s body, ashamed to be seeking desperately for more skin, more touch, more heat, anything, really. He should be ashamed for the tears in his eyes, for the way he pushes his body against the other’s, for the deep-red flush on his cheeks, for the way he’s groaning as if he’s being devoured by his own desire, his hands travelling down Tom’s body – but there’s no shame, no resentment, no fear, no confusion. Everything seems natural, as though he’s reuniting with a part of himself long-lost and forgotten. 

Harry was soft clay in the potter’s hands. A sensation of intense heat shook him all the way down his core as Tom’s fingers intertwined in his hair, caressing the back on his neck. 

Remus’s words echo in his mind, _Only love can destroy and rebuild,_ as Tom’s teeth depart away from his lip, leaving him wrecked, craving for more. He can’t catch a hold on his own emotions, his thoughts as fireworks exploding with neither sequentially nor logic. His mouth is still open as he follows Tom’s movements, leaning closer when the other wizard moves backwards, glimpsing at his own blood on Tom’s lips; he doesn’t want any distance between the two of them. 

Pieces of puzzles join together when his own hands reach out for the other’s, tickling their fingers together, bringing his lips closer to Tom’s; a breath would be all it’d take for them to kiss, a glimpse of a heartbeat. 

“ _Harry_ ,” Tom groans against his skin, on his own cheeks, and Harry is about to close the distance, to let himself being devoured, consumed, destroyed and rebuilt all at once, to be molt and turned inside out, to become one with him; he’s about to let his soul reunite with what has been his since the very first moment, _I’m a selfish individual, Harry, I want you to be mine and mine only,_ he’s about to finally—

A knock on the door is all it takes to awake the two wizards’ consciousness. 

Harry blinks at Tom, who’s now shifting away from his touch, his hold; his own breath stuck in his throat. Harry turns around, staring at Hermione as she enters the room. 

“Sir., I’m so sorry. Have you seen Harry? We can’t find him anywher— _oh_. Harry, there you are,” She says, freezing on the spot, as her eyes open wide with surprise. 

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again. He’s breathing heavy.

Unlike him, Tom is composed: he cleaned the blood away from his mouth with the palm of his left hand, which is now casually resting on Dumbledore’s desk; his lips are redder than usual, his robes disarranged.

“Where is Dumbledore?”

“He left,” Harry manages to say, not hearing the weakness in his voice. 

“Right,” The witch says, glaring at both men as she opens her mouth again, pouring no sound. She bends her head twice before asking, perplexed: “Have I interrupted something?”

Harry is about to speak, still shocked and dizzy, but Tom cuts him off.

“Miss. Granger, I assume,” He says, calmly and charismatic. He steps closer to offer his own hand to Hermione for her to shake, smiling patiently as he does so. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again. I’m so sorry, you’ve grown up so much and beautifully I could barely recognize you. Harry spoke a lot about you and your academic successes.”

Hermione flushes, enchanted and delighted by Tom’s charisma. She shyly shakes Tom’s hand, but her voice is bold and fiery when she speaks.

“Not as much as he told us about you, I hope.”

Harry is looking at her with his mouth open, his brow sceptically raised. If he could be redder and more flushed than he already is, he would be.

“Right. Well, we should go.”

“Yes. Harry, your lips—”

“Perhaps you should make someone see that cut, Harry,” Tom utters silkily, growing puzzled as an attempt to fake concern. “You wouldn’t like things to get messy, would you?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> I don't know where this story came out from, but I truly would love some constructive criticism!
> 
> Next chapter will be Tom's POV and I'll have more flashbacks to explain a bit more the nature of their bond and their relationship. Harry is a cute little bean, but Tom is a bit more tormented-kinda-kid.


	2. (flashbacks) memento mei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry nods and his hands slip flat upon Tom’s chest, above his heart.
> 
> “I’d follow you everywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaa i'm so sorry tom's pov came so late but i hope you like it!

You said I killed you: haunt me, then!

Be with me always, take any form, drive me mad!

Only do not leave me in this abyss,

Where I cannot find you.

**_“WUTHERING HEIGHTS”, EMILY BRONTE_ **

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_SUMMER, 1934._ **

Tom had always been as much a perfectionist as a cunning deceiver: he always had the ability to create the perfect mask and charade so that others could have been either repelled or enchanted by his his features, his words, sometimes his actions, too; everything in his attitude depended on what he wanted from them in the first place, everything in his mind was about how to ingratiate himself with the people around him for his own gain. He crafted his charm and developed a cunning deceitfulness at the Orphanage, first learning how to get himself out of trouble and then embellish the truth when it suited him the most, which he later mastered at Hogwarts, where the walls were filled with archaic magic, bewitching him, forcing him to caress them like the soft skin of a lover each time he had the opportunity to. 

Learning about his power proved its benefits, too: it made him believe he was meant for greatness, it burned him with a raging desire to avenge himself, with the need to exceed himself only to prove his own worth to the world. 

That was why, even though many people would disagree with him, killing Billie’s rabbit hadn’t been a deed that brought him pleasure, nor satisfaction or strength, which were all things he hoped to achieve as he had always been disgusted by the boy’s existence – he had to suppress a dreadful cold shiver each time his arms had tried to land slimy over his own shoulders, a murderous instinct each time he had sneezed all over him without covering his nose, aching and sore grunts, full of resentment and despise, each time he had beated him up only to mock him, to remind him of what his place was and was always going to be; yet, things have changed once Tom had discovered his own magic and powers, well developed from a young age, because even before being told that he was a wizard, or having knowledge of the wizarding world, he was able to control his underage magic – but killing Billie’s rabbit had been nothing more than a necessary feat; something he had to do to reestablish the roles, to show he could be a threat, too, if only he wished and wanted himself to be, a warning call for those who had hurt or annoyed him. 

He could even say he had detested it because he had to bear the blood, the headache caused by Billie’s grievous screams and loud cries; but most of all, he had to face Death for the first time and  _ She  _ terrorized him, his throat closed in horror at what he had witnessed. He had never seen Death before, he had only read about it in some dull children’s stories – but the scrabble and spasms and and chokes had been real, the ferrous smell of blood, the way  _ She  _ drained the light out of the eyes of a little rabbit as though it was nothing but dust, consuming its whole life in what had felt like a heartbeat. 

He knew pain and fear were nothing but catalysts for one’s ultimate downfall, emotions that he had to learn to overcome because all idle and weak men exist in nothing but mere comfort and agony – to be eternal, that would be the real goodness, to not fear the end of life, to not fear  _ anything _ – so he vowed himself to never perish for such frail human conditions. 

If anything, he wished to get out of Life by mastering Death, to overcome it; he wished for Death to kneel before him, not the other way around. 

He thought he knew himself: his power was unlimited, his mind limitless; he could have grown indifferent from his own emotions and fears, building his own character on cold hatred instead, on his desire of vengeance and dominance.

But things have changed when Harry came along. 

Tom had never experienced a more tormentful and excruciating encounter, not even Dumbledore had caused him so much perturbation. He found himself genuinely conflicted for the very first time in his life: he wanted Harry to get closer, as it was obvious to him that he was hiding something and Tom was eagerly curious to find out what that was, but his inability to share his own living space with someone else made everything impossible to the point he was forced to avoid him as much as he could had.

Manipulating and deceiving him was out of the equation, too, as he found himself unnerved by the boy’s genuine and open kindness. 

He feared Harry as much as he was fascinated by him because his heart was something foreigned to him, it had an eerie capacity of changing the pace and rhythm of those who would dare to listen to it. Everything of him emanated pure, fierce and yet innocent strength: the lightning-scar carved on his forehead, kept hidden under his scruffy and disheveled hair; his feral green eyes held the unnatural and hideous force to tempt him in, to bewitch his very core; his soft and captivating grin, not too pompous nor too haughty, but somehow kindly vindictive, the one with which he jeered at the other kids each time Mrs. Cole praised him for his perfect chores; he moved like a wary sphynx cat, always ready to bite and claw; he was brave and bold – he was everything Tom had never been because where he had to act, Harry had to simply let himself be. His essence was as threatening as it was terribly enticing; an exquisite dagger to the throat. 

Yet, no matter how much he had tried to avoid him, Harry showed no special interest in any of the other boys and girls at the Orphanage, though he was kind to them all, but for him. His emerald and sparkling eyes glittered each time their gaze met, by accident, when the youngest noticed him staring. 

At first Tom camouflaged his own interest with cold indifference, but after having found a way to not being noticed, he took his time studying him. Beneath Harry’s tenderful fierce features, full of natural sweetness and light, there was something else, something he had never seen in anybody else: a pain so deep and agonizing that caused him to blaze like the spark of a firework. 

He was used to people being consumed by their own fear and despair, shame and hate, pain and weaknesses; he himself wanted to eradicate his own fear out of his human self like a tumor – on the contrary, though, Harry was like a flame and his fear and pain acted like catalysts for his wild and untamed soul.

When the small boy smiled, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled softly, lighting his gaze up; he liked to challenge himself in games and fights with the older kids, even though he knew from the start that he had no hope winning, simply because he didn’t care about losing in the first place; early in the morning, as he walked down for breakfast, rubbing his swollen eyes under his glasses with the back of his hands closed into fists, there was an irrepressible glamour to him, his hair tousled and his face still muddled with sleep; when lost in his thoughts, like an evening primrose which petals only bloom at night, his features transformed in silence and became more contemplative, as though he could spot the light the world holds in the quiet moments of dark. 

When Tom had learnt about Harry being a wizard, too, something inside of him had howled like a starved wolf. A desire, an eager and selfish want – to see his magic, to see his true self, to summon it back, to have someone who could understand him. It had settled and haunted him for quite a time. 

_ He wanted him.  _

He wanted to see if his magic held the same fervent strength Harry himself embodied so distinctly. It could ruin him, this craving of his, he knew very well it could; but ironically, he found himself enslaved by his own greedy desire.

***

After the wind-accident, Tom grew used to him. 

He no longer escaped from Harry’s seeking and curious gaze. Instead, his body moved naturally and his feet took him to wherever the other boy was: in spite of himself, his pulse revivified each time he found himself too distant from him, anxious about the space separating one from the other; in spite of himself, he found a vivacious resilience in Harry that made his own fear seem foolish; in spite of himself, he found that talking with him was way easier than he thought it would have been – sharing with him his own and most intimate thoughts, his memories of the Orphanage, his new life at Hogwarts, how much his other housemates despised him, what classes were most intriguing and what instead he would have changed about the curriculum, as well as his future  _ ambitions  _ and  _ aspirations,  _ was both natural and dangerous as there wasn’t a single thing that he would not have said or confessed willingly to him. 

He hated it at first, feeling incapable of controlling his sensations, bewitched by his own feelings; yet, he found himself growing uncontrollably obsessed with Harry. He seemed unable to extradicate him from his thoughts, his blood, his chest, his life – he didn’t depend on him; rather, his own magic was complementary to the youngest’s like conjoined twins separated at birth. 

And even though he hadn’t yet accepted it consciously, deep down he knew that the reason why they have been tamed to each other is because they have both allowed it to happen. He knew better than blaming an accidental magic’s episode to create such a powerful, totalirating, piercing bond. 

Changes cannot be made unless they are wanted. 

_ Was it foolish of him for wanting it? For wanting him? _

It was going to end in ruins; like all things. 

***

The thing that startled him the most was that he did no longer mind being touched by someone else, if it was was him; he did no longer mind sharing his space with someone else, if it was him; he did no longer mind doing normal things all kids do, if he could do them with him; he did no longer mind sharing his readings with someone, if it was him – he found himself unexpectedly delighted and amused in being the reason for Harry’s constant growing curiosity, for the bright spark in his emerald eyes, for the soft smile curling his lips each time their gazes found a home in each other’s. 

Sometimes for his heart to throb lively in his ribs in a way it had never done before, reminding him of his neglected emotions, it was enough for him hearing Harry sneering amiably at his own provocations; it was enough for him watching the youngest playing around with the snakes he had called while he was reading, or the way his tiny hands would dig onto the soil when Harry was doing his chores in the back garden, taking good care of the newborn flowers and plants; somehow, it was enough to be part of his life. How could he have minded having such a fierce, as wild as tender soul close to him?

Harry was no ordinary kid: he could feel his ruthless magic running along his own in his veins, merciless and warm like arson; it could eat and swallow him whole if it only wanted to. 

In the soft glowing light of twilight, sitting on his bed with his back against the wall and legs crossed at his ankles, Tom tilts his head to glimpse at Harry, the drowsy tangle of his limbs; he is still asleep but his chest is rising and falling quickly and irregularly, causing him to breathe heavily, almost panting distrsfully, as though an invisible grip was seizing his insides. 

Suddenly, a hushed wail coming from the boy’s lips prompts Tom to stand up and get closer to the other bed, trying not to make too much noise.

Harry’s nightmares had stopped after the wind-accident. He had asked him questions about it, in the beaming daylight, and Harry had answered them all, he didn’t hide anything from him: his parents’ death, how they’ve been attacked by evil dark wizards; Harry told him he didn’t remember much about it, but his nightmares were always all the same – a dark mist falling upon the street, a jolt of green light, which Tom recognized as the _Avada Kedavra_ _course_ , a witch with dark hair, his mother’s cries and desperate prays. 

Tom knew it was no uninentional murder: whoever was behind it, they were looking specifically for them. Probably for him, too – Harry’s magic was something many powerful wizards could have either feared or envied, especially at times of war. Tom himself was jealous of it: Harry was barely seven years old, but deep within him was concealed a force of nature so ravaging he could have destroyed an entire avenue if he could only control it. 

As Tom comes to crook over him, lifting a finger to shove back the wet and ruffled hair on his burning forehead, Harry jerks madly under him, becoming entangled in the hangings, prompting him to startle. 

Growing anxious and uncomfortable, throat incredibly dry, making it tough for him to swallow, he props himself with one knee on the bed and bends elegantly over him; he then brings both of his hands to seize a hold of the youngest’s shoulders, finding him covered in cold sweat, his body shaking with dreadful quivers. 

“STOP! NO!” Harry yelps under him as his eyes snap wide open with horror, emeralds shining feverishly in the faint light of dawn, hands closing into fists on the front of Tom’s shirt, causing him to almost lose his balance. 

And Tom’s heart pounds loudly, blending with Harry’s frenetic throbbing. 

“It’s me, Harry, it’s just me,” He whispers, voice low and hoarse, before rubbing his ruffled hair with one hand and his cheek with the other, smoothly, attempting to calm both him and himself down. “You had a nightmare.”

Beneath him, Harry shivers and quivers and he looks as if the world is about to crash upon him. He pants, restlessly and agitated, as Tom fondles his hair with a soft tenderness he didn’t think he could hold; slowly, then, peering him from his lashes, he shifts his fingertips down the flaming skin of the boy’s neck, urging on his beating pulse, trying to fully awaken him. 

Yet, as Harry doesn’t loosen the tightly desperate grip on his own shirt, lips trembling as though he is forcing himself not to weep, the oldest brings himself to lay down in bed by his side. 

“I’m here,” He murmurs husky, not knowing what else to do but to follow his own instinct, before pulling the youngest in his embrace. Harry pushes himself against him with no hesitation, faintly pressing his face onto the hollow of his own neck as Tom wraps firmly his own arms around his slim shoulders, stroking the nape of his head with the tip of his own nose, mildly, whispering coaxing words that hold the sweet taste of a promise. “I’m here, I won’t leave you…”

***

August is rolling closer and closer to its end, time rushing and unhurring all at once, and he will be heading back to Hogwarts in a few days.

From the open window of their room, Tom attentively monitores Harry while the youngest is finishing his daily chores in the backyard, watering the petunias he has planted at the beginning of summer. 

His stomach heaves quietly. He can smell their scent even from up above: it is everywhere, refreshing and yet delicate; he is sure it will even get stuck on Harry’s hair, in the sticky damp of his skin, on his hands, underneath his nails. 

He can’t stop thinking about last night, how he couldn’t bear to watch him holding back his tears, suppressing his painful cry, swallowing it stubbornly down; how his clear agony has made his own heart wince in its despair. 

It has taken him a while to realize he didn’t want to see him being sad, but it has been quicker from Tom to start thinking about how to embrace himself in the upcoming events that will inevitably shake their quotidianity as well as their life – his soon to be consultation with Dumbledore, for example. 

_ Merlin…  _ what would Harry do, what would he himself do, too, if someone tries to tear them apart? Is Harry’s safety worth the risk? It is, he has forced himself to believe as he overcame his own selfishness, because if whoever killed Harry’s parents is still walking around freely, there is a high possibility they would look for him again. Heavens forbid they have already started. 

Suddenly, his skin prickles as Harry raises his head and his green eyes fall upon him; it is a matter of a heartbeat before his mouth departs and a bright smile curls his lips, unaware of all things raging in the older wizard’s mind.

For now, Tom thinks while watching the little one as he disappears from his sight, he must keep his worries and thoughts for himself. Their bond might make it hard for him to hide his own concern – since they haven’t yet learned to control when nor how much of their emotions they can let slithered through it and, inevitably, everytime the two of them touch they naturally jumble together into a whole – but, no matter the excruciating ache in his chest nor the sense of emptiness eating him from the inside each time he tries to hide himself away from the other, he must do it.

Sweat slickers down his temples and his breath catches when he hears heavy, clumsy footsteps approaching. He turns toward the door and his brows arch when, a moment later, it bursts open.

“TOM!” 

Tom’s ears buzzle lightly with the raps of Harry’s breath, and something he cannot understand the taste of jumps in his throat – an emotion he has never felt, loudly echoing in his ribs, slippering softly and yet heavily down his spine. 

His fingers pinch themself white as he tries to steady himself, giving nothing away to the other kid and, rigidly, takes a few steps away from the window.

Harry’s mirthful smile grows wider, richer, prompting Tom’s knees to tingle.

“Look!” He cries out, a childish euphoria creeping in his voice, making it sweeter than honey; he then holds out his hands and Tom peers down at the tiny blue petunias-flower crown he is holding, feeling his stomach rolling, awash with both nerves and levity at once. “I made it for you!”

He freezes to the spot. His brows twitch as his mind slowly gropes toward understanding – Harry’s joy is so radiant he doesn’t dare to sneer, but he cannot stop his lips from pressing tightly together.

“Excuse me?”

The younger boy snorts loudly before puffing his cheeks. 

“You heard me!” He insists proudly, dauntless, tapping his right foot on the ground. As if it is the most logical thing in the world, he shakes the flower crown in midair and explains: “I made it for you, so now you have to wear it.”

“That’s never going to happen.”

“But–!”

Tom narrows his eyes, cutting him off with a menacing look. 

“Never.”

Harry opens his mouth and shuts it close to a heartbeat later. He frowns, then, and his lips curl in a soft, gracious smile; hauntingly beautiful. His finger flick for just a moment, as though he has had an idea, and he lowers his hands, taking a few long, solemn strides toward him without breaking eye contact. 

Tom drinks in his wild hair, his sparkling irises, his crooked glasses, the folds on his dirty shirt, soiled with pollen stains. He cocks his head to better look at him when the youngest comes to stand merely inches away, holding the flower crown in his left hand and prodding him in the ribs with his right index.

He chuckles slightly, but Harry shoots him a watery look and his breath catches as his throat closes, his heart might or might not have missed a beat. 

“Please?” The boy whispers wobbly, eyes wide behind his glasses, and his lower lip protrudes in a mellow, sulky pout; his voice is low, barely audible, as though scared someone might hear it. “You would make me really happy…”

Tom’s nostrils flare, his mouth suddenly too dry to let him speak. 

Harry has never spoken like this, not even after awakening from a terrible nightmare: each word sinks underneath his skin, cutting a deeper scratch into his heart, and Tom can’t help but to clench his own hands into fists and nods without thinking. 

“Fine. I’ll wear it.”

Harry’s shaking breath cracks into amused chuckles and later grows louder, bursting into a jauntry laughter. Lofty tears of glee fill his eyes and he brushes the knuckles of his right hand upon his lids, trying to steady himself.

His sudden outburst brings the oldest back to himself. 

Tom sneers, stung by Harry’s sneaky masquerade, and folds his arms upon his chest as he shoots him a devilish look, narrowing tightly his own charcoal eyes.

“You little–”

“Oi, oi!” Harry chides happily, cutting him off. He waves solemnly a finger in midair, scolding him theatrically, and raises the hand-holding the flower crown while peering up at him with a foxy gaze. “You shouldn’t use bad words with children and you can no longer take back what you’ve said. Or I will start crying for real!”

Tom bites his inner cheeks and swallows a fuming breath, not wanting to make a spectacle of himself. Their eyes meet and the younger boy cocks his head to the side, waiting patiently for him to do or say something; the ghost of his previous laughter still soft on his mouth, livid in his bright irises. 

Tom’s fingernails prick into the skin of his own palms as he inhales deeply, silently, collecting his thoughts before elegantly falling to his left knee in front of Harry. Without closing his eyes but averting Harry’s surprised look, he bows his head and holds his breath as though a single exhale would break him.

“You’re so dramatic,” Harry chuckles tenderly and runs a hand through his perfectly-tidy hair, gently caressing his strands. The older boy loosens the tensions on his own shoulders and hums quietly, absorbed, prompting Harry to take it as an invitation to keep going. Slowly, then, he rubs Tom’s nape as though to reassure him, fingers warm and respectful. “It’s just a flower crown, Tom. I’m not taking you to the guillotine.”

Time folds in on itself, closing over the two of them, burying them away from the rest of the world. 

“You’re only seven,” Tom mocks, tilting his own head slightly; his voice gravelly, deep and low. “How come you know complex words like  _ guillotine _ ?”

He doesn’t lift his chin when Harry’s mirthful laughter ricochets in the walls of the room, but his pulse thumbs faster, heavier. 

“Because I’m smart!” Harry yelps, giving Tom’s hair a last fondle before adjusting the flower crown on his head; and if Tom would have closed his eyes, he could have heard the mad batter of the boy’s heart. “You may now stand,  _ my Lord.” _

Finally, Tom stands and he is surprised to find his own knees not aching. 

“Like this,” Harry says in a low whisper as a smile curls on his lips and dimples arise on both of his dainty cheeks; his words echo mildly in the room, yet stronger than his laughters. “You won’t be lonely even if you’re alone.”

  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  
  


**_SEPTEMBER, 1934._ **

Three weeks have passed since Tom’s summer vacation had ended and he had returned to Hogwarts. After having spoken with Dumbledore, revealing Harry’s existence and the nature of their bond, he has found out that Harry’s parents were working for him. His professor didn’t tell him everything, as he himself had expected, just for the minimum amount of information he thought Tom could have gotten: Harry’s parents were members of his Order and had fought during the early years of the Global Wizarding War, but once Lily got pregnant they had both withdrawn from their working positions only to come back when Harry was about three years old. Dumbledore has told him how he himself and the other members of the Order have believed that Harry had been killed, too, during the assassination of the Potters; and Tom found himself equally stunned and disgusted – angry, even – by the simplicity of such a thought, by the lack of cunningness. So many, too many, questions have rambled in his young mind: how could they have thought Harry was dead if they never found the body? Haven’t they tried to look for him? Harry could have been captured by Grindelward’s followers, haven’t they thought about that? But more importantly, didn’t the Potters know they were being chased by Grindelward’s followers? They really did nothing to protect themselves, to protect  _ Harry _ ?

Tom has always known better than believing blindly everything Dumbledore has ever said to him. He has sensed there was something else the old wizard wasn’t telling him by the way his jaw have hardened as he spoke, something his Professor was willingly hiding; a secret, a dangerous truth. That’s why, without a second thought and with no hesitation, he has had asked if he could accompany him the day that his Professor was going to meet Harry at the Orphanage. At first Dumbledore looked doubtful, hesitant; he had been silent for a few moments, thinking: perhaps Tom had left him unsettled as he wasn’t expecting something very akin to an emotional bond with another person to happen to Tom himself. And believe the odds, before Harry, Tom had thought the same. 

Back to the present day, sitting on the mown grass in the backyard, their back resting against the cherry-tree’s trunk as Tom explains to Harry everything Dumbledore has told him, he feels as if he could have spent a thousand lives before this one searching for the boy’s soul and magic. 

_ For him. _

The leaves rattle gently, the sun hangs calmly in the horizon. 

Few meters away from them, Dumbledore and the other two wizards Tom had met earlier that morning, Remus and Sirius, are talking. After having had asked a few questions to Harry and having reassured him that everything is going to be alright, they have left them alone, trusting Tom to take care of Harry in the meanwhile they were going to make a decision. The two boys have tried many times to hear what they were discussing secretly, but they must have casted a  _ silencing charm _ all around them as Sirius’s mouth was opening constantly, sometimes with vivacity and anger, even, but no sounds came out of it. 

Harry’s eyes narrow slightly, as though weighing something.

“What do you think?” He asks, stiffening beside him; his voice is low but rich, mellow, causing Tom’s eyes to shift and doze onto his as if Harry is the only living thing inhabiting Earth, his fingertips to tingle. “About Dumbledore.”

Tom hums quietly, forcing his own face to be unreadable as he peeps briefly, with a silent and perfect discretion, toward the direction of the older wizards before bringing his gaze back onto Harry’s. He finds his  _ always-so-curious  _ eyes waiting for him, prompting a familiar swoop of his stomach. 

His own mouth quirks in a bitter, mocking smirk. 

“He doesn’t trust me much.”

Harry’s head falls back a little, exposing the supple and soft skin of his throat as he chuckles, bringing Tom’s nostrils to flare with astonishment; it’s a pure and sweet sound, a tender one, as gentle and unshielded as dawn light. 

“Well, Tom, you are a very good trickster,” He utters, soft and yet resolute as steel, as though he was pointing out an obvious truth. He frowns, then, pushing his bottom lip forwards; an innocent crease contrasting the flaming brutality of his ability to read right through him. “But I wonder, what could have possibly happened for him to not trust you?”

Tom stiffs, feeling his own jaw clenching as if it has a life of its own, bringing his own face to grow inevitably and utterly serious. 

He doesn’t much trust himself to speak without having yet the perfect answer, dubious of how much he wants Harry to find out about his own rivalry with Dumbledore. So, instead, he tilts his head a little and Harry’s head mirrors promptly his movement like an inquisitive owl – a few of his tousled hair slip forward to hang over his eyes as a small smile lifts the right corner of his mouth. Without even meaning to, Tom finds himself leaning forward. 

He slowly raises his own left hand and scooches over him, glimpsing briefly at Harry’s mouth agape with surprise; then, as smooth as the surface of a still lake, he stretches his own fingers and tucks a wayward lock of the younger kid’s hair behind his ear. Slowly, he brushes his town humb over the velvety skin of Harry’s neck, savouring the way his eyes blink innocently behind his glasses, the surprised gasp escaping his carnous lips, the pale-pink flush spreading all over his cheeks, soft like the blooming breath of spring. 

In spite of itself, Tom’s heart lightenes. 

“I don’t trust him either,” He mutters husky, narrowing his charcoal eyes attentively on Harry’s startled but dangerously candid features; he feels his own pulse beating thickly in his veins at each word. “He’s too self-assured.” 

Harry’s eyes, brighter than emeralds, widen as if he has realised something wise; the satisfied expression of someone who has resolved a riddle. 

“You can’t trick him, can you?” He whispers, low and amused, before teasing him with a sly look; but as Tom leers quietly at him while drifting his own hand away, Harry tries to muffle his scattered laughter by pressing the bare palm of his right hand flat against his lips. His green eyes flicker to his own once more, then, and his gaze turns feral as he speaks; his voice is as delicate as a rose’s petal, but his words sink deep into Tom’s flesh like thorns. “Even if you might think that he sees right through you, I don’t think he does… not fully, at least.”

Harry’s face has turned red while speaking, perhaps without meaning to, bringing Tom’s heart to miss a beat. His own chest aches with something so overwhelming he can’t find the name of, too many emotions melting and contrasting with one another – fear and longing, anxiety and eagerness, the kind of sensations that warn him of how deep Harry can dip onto him, as though his feelings are nothing but an extension of his owns. 

_ You fool _ , something inside of Tom’s self yells angrily;  _ Harry is not like you.  _

Even though Tom is capable of guessing Harry’s thoughts as though they are his own, most of the time he can do nothing but read him: there are things about him he can’t comprehend completely, because his own mind is made of cold and cryptic rationalism. Harry, on the other hand, is way different; he has the natural empathetic ability to feel what Tom’s himself is feeling, to live what he himself is living as if their skins are the same, to see him and understand him in a way Tom couldn’t even understand himself. 

He swallows, his own throat suddenly dry, before turning his gaze in the direction of the other wizards. They’re still talking with each other: Dumbledore looks as calm and composed as ever; yet, Sirius’s face seems to have grown paller and gravois than earlier and his hands are jerking chaotically in midair. 

“What about you, uh?” He asks, voice low and unusually hoarse, before bringing his own attention back to the younger boy. “Do you remember something of those two men?”

Harry’s forehead wrinkles. For a moment he expects to witness hesitation, but the youngest doesn’t wince. Instead, his voice reaches him easily and a sharp curiosity glitters in his feral eyes. 

“Not much, really,” He admits, not shamefully nor painfully, but honestly; as always, his capacity and natural genuinity in sharing his own thoughts brings Tom to question how on Earth a boy only his age can be so open and comfortable about his own feelings. “I remember Sirius the most, I think my parents were used to leaving me with him when they had to work. I remember that I had fun with him, and also with the other man. I wish I could remember more but everything in my mind is still very blurry.”

Tom hums pensively, nodding slowly. Harry’s eyes are still locked into his own, unmovable; something he can’t fight off.

“One thing we can give for granted,” He utters, frowning slightly before tilting his head to the side, smirking slyly. “Is that they’re both typical Gryffindors.”

Harry’s lips depart as he makes a sound almost like a laugh.

“You say it as if it’s a bad thing!” He snaps with delighted amusement, shaking his head in kind disappointment before bringing his own eyes to gaze at the wizards standing a few meters away from them. He sulks, then, and bites his lower lip. As he speaks once more, his voice sounds more thoughtful and definitely heavier; concerned, even. “They look like nice people.”

Harry’s lips twist in a blithe smile and Tom feels a racking anxiety starting to slowly seize his own chest. He tries to stifle it as he doesn’t want the boy to see his own fear even if he is no longer comfortable hiding himself from him. 

“I think–” He breaks off, clenching his own jaw as he tries to get control over his own voice and features, fighting against the mildness of his tone. When Harry’s attentive eyes come back into his own, he feels something crawling and twisting within him, oppressing him and almost choking him; something very akin to anger. He doesn’t like what he is about to say; but thinking of what little he can do regarding the matter, the bitterness of the words dies before he could have controlled it. “I think Dumbledore wants you to go live with them.”

_ It’s for the best _ , he has thought at first and, despite the dreadful bile with which he has to swallow his own pride, still thinks now. It is for the best: because Harry is  _ his _ , but if anything would happen to him when he isn’t around to prevent it, he doesn’t know if he could ever forgive himself. 

Harry is staring at him in silence, unblinkable. He is so close Tom can smell him, the scent of petunias-flowers laced with clover honey, their knees are touching and so are their bare elbows. 

Something sparkling in green eyes drains the anger from him.

_ The birth of tears _ .

“Me? But–” Harry asks, his voice rasping, shaking with sudden and vivid agitation. He gulps anxiously, his fingers trembling as he embraces his knees tightly, bringing them closer to his tiny chest. “But what about you?”

Tom’s heart begins to throb tortuously, heavily. He tilts his own head back, resting it against the cherry-tree’s trunk; then, to avoid Harry’s questioning stare, he lifts his own gaze up at the leaves rattling quietly. 

“I’ll go back to Hogwarts.”

_ It’s for the best. _

“What about your summer vacations?”

Harry’s voice is loud in the quiet and stillness of the backyard. Even without looking down at him, Tom can feel his ardent, narrowed gaze pitching his own flesh. And in this very moment, he doesn’t know what to most wish for: the consuming intensity of his emerald eyes upon him himself or the hollow emptiness he would feel if Harry would stop looking at him, turning away, distant and unreachable like a celestial body. 

He feels the urgency to hold him close. Yet, instead, Tom stretches his own fingers before closing his hands into fists and breathes in, deeply, beginning to struggle to keep himself collected. 

Before answering, he peers down at Harry’s hands clasping his knees.

“I’ll come back here.”

He drifts his gaze, then, daring to seek Harry’s. But as he turns his own head to the side, he flinches – the youngest was already waiting for his eyes to come meet him, and once they have done so, Harry speaks his answer with no hesitation, clear and stubborn; his voice crashes against him smooth like a knife’s blade and yet gentle like a tenderful caress. 

“Then I’ll stay here, too.”

Tom staggers. 

He has had expected indecision, perhaps scepticism; sadness, even. He has never foreseen anger nor resentment – but Harry is looking up at him with eyes full of grief, as though, if only they could, they would set him on fire. 

Tom’s magic, in spite of itself, starts to grow warmer in his own veins, reacting to the boy’s. Harry is barely seven years old but the wildness of his arcane magic makes him as tormentous as the flames of hell.

“Harry,” He calls in a low, warning tone. 

But Harry sneers with frustration and resolution. He shakes his own head, undoomed, before promptly standing up, cupping his own dainty cheeks with both of his hands. He lowers his gaze on him while growing teeth; a provocation as sharp as his determination, his stubborn persistence. 

He’s dangerous. His features look more vivid than usual, like carved marble. 

_ “Tom,” _ He whispers impudently, mimicking his previous warning tone. 

Tom stands, too, and sighs while narrowing his own gaze down at him. He opens his arms in surrender, as though meaning to ask him,  _ what now? _

“You don’t understand,” He says, profoundly serious, before running the fingers of his left hand through his hair, holding back his bangs. “It’s obvious that Grinderlward was looking for  _ you _ , Harry, and we don’t know if he’d look for you again once he’ll find out you’re still alive. You must go with them. It’s for your own safety, if you stay here–”

“No!” Harry cuts him off quickly, perturbed, before grasping tightly the front of Tom’s shirt with his own fingers. “I want to be with you.”

He scoffs tauntingly, causing Harry’s grip to tighten even more as a deep flush blooms on his neck, his eyes blazing with anger; an unspoken promise. 

“I won’t let you.”

“I don’t need your permission!” Harry yells, jerking Tom by the shirt, and an electric tension starts to fill the air around them, prompting the older wizard to seize Harry’s thin shoulders with his own hands. “It’s also my choice to make.”

Tom is about to grunt something back at him, having already grown teeth, when a concerned cough coming from behind Harry’s back shocks the both of them, freezing them to the spot. They flinch and startle back from one another, and as they turn synchronically in the direction of the sound, Tom swallows quietly, forcing his own face to turn still and calm.

Dumbledore is standing in front of them with Remus and Sirius by his side; his expression is impenetrable, whereas the other two wizards’ eyes are wide open with both surprise and slight concern. 

“Is everything alright, boys?”

Dumbledore’s voice is heavy, solemn; it causes Tom’s legs to ache as though the soil under his feet has just been ripped open. He turns his own head to look at Harry, finding him sulking, flushed; his hands are closed into fists and his eyes are fervent with resoluteness.

“I’m not going anywhere,” The youngest says, in a solid tone, causing Tom’s stomach to awash with anger and relief all at once, his skin to turn cold and itchy, and the other wizards to flinch at the steadiness of his childish voice. 

An awkward silence drops upon them like a curtain.

Tom feels his own limbs rolling as he drifts his charcoal gaze to the other men, drinking their silhouettes in: Remus is pressing his lips together and his features are lively, his eyes wide open with astonishment and he doesn’t dare to breathe; Sirius’s cheeks are flushed with a faint, pale red, and yet, his features are more sharped and vigorous. 

“Harry–” Remus tries, a voice holding the same gentleness he has heard many times before in Harry’s, too, before being cutted off by the other wizard.

“We’re taking you home, pup.”

Harry shakes his head, fiery, and steps forward, bringing himself to stand between Tom and the other wizards as though he was trying to protect him.

Following his movements, eyes covetously fixated on the youngest, Tom’s mind is enlightened with sudden understanding. 

This has nothing to do with the magic bond taming one to the other.

_ Harry doesn’t want to leave him because he doesn’t want him to be alone. _

“I don’t want to leave.”

Tom’s throat closes over with unease. He gulps quietly, steadily, trying to compose himself while everyone’s attention is focused on the other kid; his own features stiff rigidly and his jaw clenches as his eyes narrow to slits. 

A menace that holds the bittersweet taste of a faithless prayer. 

“That’s enough,” He whispers, glacial as ice. “Go pack your things, Harry.”

He feels Dumbledore’s gaze surveying him attentively as Harry whirls on himself quickly and comes to face him, giving his back at the other wizards. 

Tom forces his own features to be unreadable, but his heart misses a leap. 

Harry’s eyes are wide open with fury, his lips are trembling, his shoulders are quivering hefty – and surprisingly, even though he looks breathless, he manages to find the strength to yell against him.

“Stop it! Why are you doing this?” He yelps, growing impatient; the ground beneath his little feet quaked as though his agonizing cry digged directly onto the soil. “Don’t you want us to be together?”

All of a sudden, like the calm before a storm, an electric and threatening tension fills the air and Tom’s magic starts to warm up in his own veins without him having called for it. Unlike the youngest, who seems to be not aware of his reactions, he feels his own limbs twisting with anticipation, his own fingertips burning with excitement. 

Tom takes a few steps closer to him and slowly, calibrating his own breathing, raises his left hand and presses his bare palm on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing tenderly, making him wince like a deer dazzled by the high beams of a car. 

As Harry’s chin jerks up and their eyes lock silently, he feels his own stomach clenching while a coarse chill traveling down the full lenght of his spine. 

Neither of them looks away from the other when Dumbledore’s voice reaches them, measured and deliberate; it reflects no irritation or annoyance, but no compassion, either.

“Harry,” He calls calmly, hoping to gain the boy’s attention. “This must be unexpected, but I ask you to please understand. It’s for your own safety.”

Harry blinks twice, startled, but doesn’t look away from the older boy’s eyes. Tom can feel his magic raging irated deep within him as the youngest bites ravenously his lower lip, nails digging deep into his flesh, looking as if he’s fighting not to lose control over himself. 

“What about Tom?” Harry asks, his voice unusually rusty and dry, before turning himself to face Dumbledore. Promptly, Tom tilts his hand away.

“Tom will continue attending Hogwarts,” He hears his Professor saying, his voice as smooth as thin ice. “In a few years, you too will come join him.”

He doesn’t dare to look at the other wizards, deciding to keep his own charcoal eyes focused on Harry as though he couldn’t see anything but him. 

“I want to be with him.”   
  


Tom startles. In spite of himself, his own breath catches and his own lips depart slightly – only Harry can reveal his deepest feelings this boldly. 

He falters a moment, unblinking. But a second later, gaining control over himself, unfazed, he raises an eyebrow.

His nostrils flare arbudtly as he whispers the boy’s name, calling him with a softness he never has thought his own tongue could have held, slowly, as though he wants to frame in his own mind the taste of it: “Harry.”

Harry winces, his knees shrinking with a twist of dread and rave. The boy doesn’t turn to look at him and bows his head to avert the questioning gazes of the other wizards in front of them, yet, Tom can see the furious quivers travelling down his spine; he can feel each one of them as though they are his, too – perhaps they are his, too. 

“You’ve promised,” Harry whispers in a low, almost inaudible, wretched voice. 

_ We’ll find a way. _

Tom’s heart throbs painfully in his ribs. 

He doesn’t understand Harry’s anger: after discussing Harry’s future with Dumbledore, Tom was sure the boy would have been glad to leave the Orphanage, to be reunited with his own family and have a peaceful life; he was expecting him to be sad about their  _ temporary  _ separation, obviously, but he wasn’t expecting this hurt – it almost seems as if Tom has betrayed him. 

“And I keep my promises, Harry,” He whispers, almost to himself, hoarsely; he doesn’t recognize the unfamiliar desperation in his own voice, the bitter resentment. “But right now this is for the best.”

Harry turns to him and he flinches, breathless, losing himself in the delusional spark of his green irises: Harry’s eyes are filled with tears and Tom can feel a coldness spreading in his own chest, heart twinging and gasping as though being stabbed by a dagger, and the beat of his magic echoes in his own as copious tears begin to fall from the boy’s cheeks, slipping silently down his chin. 

A sob prompts Harry’s shoulders to wince, to bend like a dying flower.

Tom finds himself stepping forward without even realizing he has done so, wishing to wipe his tears away, to heal his wounds, to drink his hurt and make it his own, because Harry is meant for life – everything of him (his gentle smile, his fierce stare, his mirthful laughter, his face under the sun) is meant to guide those who cannot see, cannot hear or speak; he is meant to be a child of love, to rise, to become the most vicious and wild thing he himself has never seen, to be a conqueror of souls, because only those who had first conquered themselves could conquer others, too. 

But as Tom raises both of his hands, Harry steps backward, fleeing away from his own touch, leaving him cold and empty, adrift in his own searing agony, and he feels his own face contorting, his spine throbbing excruciatingly. 

_ Is this the Hell Harry could raise for him?  _

“I trusted you!” Harry cries as he covers his face with his hands closed into fists; voice cracked, quavered with rage. “I trusted you and you gave  _ us  _ up!”

Words die on Tom’s tongue. Harry’s watery eyes seem to seep into him, prompting his own throat to choke, freezing him where he was standing. 

He doesn’t avert his intense stare and he doesn’t move, he doesn’t dare to; he has already caused too much damage. Perhaps, a part of him wishes for the youngest to simply finish what he had started, to free him from this agony. 

_ He has never regretted something in his life before  _ – he doesn’t even know the taste of remorse, but he is quite sure the acidic one he has now on his tongue is something very much akin to it. 

Dumbledore steps into the seething silence. 

“Harry…” He tries to call him, too, but his voice is a mere murmur.

Tom’s eyes meet Remus’s as Harry steps aside, the soil beneath their feet starting to quake lightly.

“Harry,” He hears him saying, not flinching even if his breath rasps in his throat, unable to come out steadily. “Tom didn’t give you up, we just want you to come back home. I’m sure we can find a way for you two to meet and–”

“What home?” Harry sneers loudly, mocking the other wizard with tormented and poisonous derition. And as he immerses his hands in his ruffled hair, his face twists with grief and Tom’s chest tightness again, causing his own breath to come out in sharped, panting gasps. “And who are you, anyway? You’re here now but where were you when my parents were attacked? You want to help me now, you all really do, but where were you when my parents died?”

A scream comes suddenly, then, almost tearing Tom’s heart out of his chest.

Everything happens in a heartbeat. 

A blazing wind rises around Harry, engulfing him inside an impregnable orange bubble-like cage made of wildfire. Compared to the one he has had summoned to push Billie away at the beginning of summer, this newborn breeze is much more powerful: its flames are malicious, mixed with jolts of electricity, and they are growing stronger by the second; he can’t even see what’s going on inside of it because the fire is too thick. He can’t see him. 

Tom, like the other wizards, strumbles when the soil stops shaking; his own face contorted with concern. As he tilts his head to the side, he sees something passing through Dumbledore’s eyes; a flicker akin to expectation. 

_ He hates him. _

_ He hates him, he hates him, he hates him, he hates him, he hates him. _

_ He wishes for him to die. This is all his fault. He knows it is. _

Dumbledore raises his left arm calmly, fingers stretched open toward the blaze, and Tom, out of himself and his own mind, winces angrily.

“Don’t!” He hisses loudly, placing himself between the blazing wind and his Professor while opening his own arms as if to turn himself into a shield, ignoring the way the muscles on his own neck tense. His breath gets caught in his own throat, but he strains the words out, solemnly. “Only  _ I  _ can control it.”

The air is thick. Both Remus and Sirius are standing beside Dumbledore, anxiously waiting for the wizard’s answer; drops of cold sweat are trickling down both of their foreheads.

Dumbledore peers down at Tom and lowers his arm, slowly and composed, almost unimpressed, and his lips curl slightly. He doesn’t speak, holding the firm expression of someone who wants to test a theory. 

_ A test.  _

_ He’s testing him – he’s testing them both. _

Tom doesn’t force his own face to turn to stone, he doesn’t stiff, it would be useless by now and he would only play his Professor’s game, too much has been revealed. Instead, he decides to focus on what can yet be fixed. 

Silently, he whirls toward the blaze and, with the same resoluteness Harry has previously held, chest rising and falling rapidly, starts to head towards it.

Sirius looks as if he can’t tell what is happening, yet he doesn’t question it; but Remus makes a sound like choking, trying to quickly stride to him.

“Wait!” He says, almost gasping. “What are you doing? It’s too dangerous.”

But Tom doesn’t stop. He simply holds his left hand out as he keeps on walking, calibrating each single step, indulging the other wizard to stay still. 

“It’s fine,” He whispers, huskily. “It won’t hurt me.”

“How can you be sure?”

_ Yes, we. Us.  _

A slight grin flickers a side of his own mouth. 

“Because Harry’s magic and mine are the same.”

He doesn’t turn his own head to look at the other wizard because, though he tries to ignore it, he can sense a soft smile curling Remus’s lips. 

_ He should have known better.  _

A restless shiver moves over him as Tom comes to stand a few inches away from the blaze and straighten right in front of the raging flames.

He then raises his own bare hands in front of him, fingers stretched open, studying the fire with anew tenderness, as though wanting to caress it; and as he closes his eyes, allowing his own blood to react to Harry’s feral magic, thunderous and unconcealed, he releases a breath, a puff of air. 

He feels as if he has been punched in the gut: yes, he wants to prove a point to Dumbledore – but most importantly, he wants Harry back. 

He takes a final step forward. 

The blaze opens before him, welcoming him as though it had recognized the magic flowing in his veins as its other half, only to close behind him once Tom has entered the bubble-like cage. 

  
  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  
  


**_DECEMBER, 1936_ ** . 

  
  


_ “Boggarts are shape-shifter, they resemble our deepest fears,” Says Professor Dumbledore, calmly, prompting Avery and Rosier to startle anxiously, almost on the verge of hyperventilation, by Tom’s side. “That is why, once I will let this one out, it will become whatever each of you most fears.” _

_ Tom raises his own hand, stiffing his own features to strain himself to look serene and composed, unmoved, waiting patiently for Dumbledore’s gaze to turn to him. And once the older wizard’s eyes meet his own, he slowly lowers his arm and asks, feigning serenity: “How would it know what shape to become if there are so many of us in this room?” _

_ Or to phrase it better, why would they want to reveal their deepest fears right here, right now, in front of one another? The mere thought of it makes him uncomfortable, defenseless, as a sense of dread and quiet nervousness is rising underneath his skin and his heart is throbbing faster, anxious.  _

_ Dumbledore smiles and Tom has to bite his own tongue to stop a malevolent smirk from twisting his own lips; the impassivity of his Professor’s stare makes him feel as if he has asked a dull question. _

_ “It is always best to have some company when we have to face our deepest fears, Tom,” He explains slowly  _ –  _ and his serenity, unlike Tom’s, is real. “This way it is easier to confuse a Boggart, since it won’t know what shape to be.” _

_ After having taught them the riddikulus charm, Dumbledore beckons the students toward the end of the classroom.  _

_ And silently, then, with their shoulders shaking visibly, they all line up in front of the old wardrobe where the Boggart is kept locked. _

_ Rosier goes first. _

_ “Etienne, my boy,” Calls Dumbledore, in a pacifying tone, and even though he tries to disguise it Tom can detect his veiled curiosity. “What would you say is the thing that frightens you most?” _

_ Rosier’s lips tremble slightly as his eyes look around sceptically, wildly open, as though begging the others not to listen. In a mere whisper, sounding more like a question rather than an answer, he says: “My father?” _

_ Muffled murmurs fill the air at the back of the classroom and Rosier sneers cynically, his body locking in place.  _

_ A cold and unfamiliar sense of awkwardness starts to coil within Tom’s limbs as Dumbledore’s eyes spark jauntily. _

_ “I wonder, Etienne. What is the thing your father dislikes the most?” _

_ Rosier’s forehead wrinkle. He looks doubtful. _

_ “I wouldn’t know,” The brunette mutters, startled. “The Chudley Cannons?” _

_ The wardrobe shakes suddenly, bringing the other students’ giggles to an end. _

_ “You’re a Seeker, Etienne, aren’t you?” Dumbledore asks, slowly, so quietly that the other students almost have to strain themselves to listen. “I assume you’re fond of the sport. Can you recall the Cannons’ uniform? Can you picture it in your mind?” _

_ “Who wouldn’t?” Rosier chides amusingly, somehow lightened.  _

_ “When the Boggart bursts out of this wardrobe, Etienne, I want you to raise your wand and concentrate hard, very hard, on the Cannon’s uniform. Do you think you can do it?” _

_ Rosier nods and the wardrobe wobbles again, this time more violently.  _

_ “I would like all of you to think of what scares you the most and imagine how you might force it to look comical,” Dumbledore utters, gaining the attention of all students. “Do not be afraid and definitely do not be ashamed. We all have something to fear, but it is how we handle them that will determine where we go with them for the rest of our lives. Now, if Etienne is successful, the Boggart is likely to shift his attention to each of us in return.” _

_ A tensed silence falls upon the room. Tom’s hands flinch quietly and his own brain freezes in place, his own shoulders quiver heavily as if he is carrying an overload weight.  _

_ He tries to gather his thoughts, which seems to be seized in some kind of sudden and uncontrollable paralysis  _ –  _ if the thing he fears the most is to be afraid, then what shape his own Boggart could possibly ever assume? _

_ His first thought is Death in the eyes of Billie’s rabbit. But before he can process it, disguise it with something else, a more frightening image snatches in his mind, floating to the surface of his consciousness like a holy revelation.  _

_ Bony fingers stretching in the dark, a skeleton with a hooded veil hanging over him, loose and tattered, threatening him, tearing his chest open, ripping and stealing his heart, leaving him cold and empty and alone alone alone alone…  _

_ He shivers and looks at his side to make sure Avery hasn’t noticed. But his housemate, like all other students, has shutted his eyes tight  _ – _ the thick rosiness of his cheeks has left its place to a ghostly pallor and a lurch of fear is causing his eyes to move rapidly under his lids.  _

_ “Everyone back, now, so Etienne can get a clear shot…” He hears Dumbledore demand, indulging the students to retreat against the walls and leave Rosier alone in front of the wardrobe. “I’ll call the next person forward.” _

_ Feeling dizzy, Tom pushes up the sleeves of his robes to hold his wand ready. _

_ “On the count of three,” The Professor says, loudly but firm, before pointing his own wand at the handle of the wardrobe. Rosier looks as pale as the moon, as if his heart has just expired. “One… Two… Three…!” _

_ In a heartbeat, Tom blinks and the wardrobe bursts open.  _

_ Menacing, Rosier’s father steps out and peers down at his son with flaming eyes. Etienne backs away, raising his wand up as he mouths wordlessly.  _

_ His father rushes towards him, but before he could have raised a hand to reach for his robes, the brunette squeaks, irated: “Riddikulus!” _

_ The Boggart stumbles and when its clothes transform into the Chudley Cannon’s bright orange uniform, Rosier’s laughter echoes in the classroom.  _

_ Tom studies his classmates, one after the other, as they walk forward when called by Professor Dumbledore: with his own face set rigidly, features stuffed like cold steel, he watches them fighting off the Boggart.  _

_ The Boggart becomes a giant black widow, then an old woman; and then again, a werewolf, a horned serpent, a valcore, Grindelwald…  _

_ He raises his own wand, ready, when it comes to a halt at his own feet. _

_ Suddenly, quick as the break of a storm, a misty veil descends, surrounding the classroom. Then a circle of light appears in front of him and Tom’s eyes open wide with horror, his heart throbs like a moth trapped in a lantern. _

_ Lying down on the floor, drowning in a puddle of scarlet blood, there is Harry’s lifeless body: deep scratches have ripped his chest open and the flesh has been torn apart; his face is sunken, the irises of his eyes are cold and empty.  _

_ Tom finds himself wheezing in deep, strained inhalations, and the walls of the room won’t stop swaying in front and all around him. _

_ He gasps for air but nothing comes and he chokes on his own breath caught in his dry throat. He tries to move his chest, his hands, his arms, but his body seems to be paralyzed as if the blood has frozen in his veins.  _

_ The lack of oxygen quickly descends on his mind, too, and he can’t help but to panic as his lungs ferociously burn. His knees tremble violently when a gelid shiver runs down his spine, consuming him, eating him from the inside.  _

_ His own lips taste like salt, his tongue like ashes.  _

**_Harry. Harry Harry Harry Harry…_ **

_ He stands there, not moving; his chest rises and falls inhumanly slow, almost as if a single breath could have killed him. He looks down at the body and his own mind seems to go to hell, caught between both denial and terror. _

_ It’s not possible!, he screams to himself, trying to gain some self-control and rationality back, because Tom is as obstinate as persistent by nature: once he has chosen a path to follow, he doesn’t avert the hurdles on it nor does he smash his own head against them; rather, he stops to ponder about the difficulties and how to overcome them successfully. He never doubts himself, he never has had and never will  _ –  _ he has always been superior, stronger and definitely more clever than anyone else; stronger than his mother and father, stronger than the other kids at the Orphanage, and one day loneliness to him will mean nothing more than ember, it would soon cease to be a state of mind, a feeling in his blood and bones; because he is made of cold intellect and cynicism, he is imperishable, he is… _

_ Tom falls on his knees, feeling his own inside rotting.  _

_ Harry is still lying dead on the floor.  _

**_His_ ** _ Harry.  _

_ His Harry, made to love, for love, his eyes as bright as fiendfyre, the ethereal tenderness of his smile, his mirthful laughter roaring along the summer wind and the world always in his ears; his wild and feral and untamed and heartbreakingly beautiful soul, the element of life itself; Harry, a dagger aimed at the heart; Harry, filling Tom’s hollowness with floresceting softness – he can hardly recall a single memory of his in which Harry is not part of: the nights spent listening silently to the rise and fall of the boy’s chest, their gazes seeking each other during chores, his fingers digging the potting soil of the backyard to sow seeds, the afternoons spent reading by the cherry-tree, leaves falling softly on his ruffled hair, hands finding a shelter in each other’s.  _

_ He was eleven when he first met him. He didn’t know how to take care of others: he could have read their thoughts or study their emotions as though they were nothing but a mere riddle to solve, but he never really knew what to do with them. Instead, he has decided willingly to cultivate a desire to be independent from other people in order to avoid the awkwardness caused by his own lack of sensibility. He has never known what to do with his own hands, either: he has always thought he could only leave bruises upon everything he’d touch, turning it to ash, but Harry’s hands have been the one and only thing he has ever learnt to hold – for all he knows, if one day he’d lose himself, he could find his own way back through the emerald eyes of the other.  _

_ It does not matter how much he tries to deny it: like a river flowing into the saltiness of the ocean, everything always comes back to Harry.  _

_ Tom would do anything for him, even the impossible.  _ **_Yet_ ** _ …  _

_ …  _ **_If Harry dies_ ** _ … Death takes with no hesitations  _ –  _ a cold wind bursting throughout the windows, leaving nothing behind but shattered glass.  _

_ …  _ **_If Harry dies_ ** _ … Would his own soul die with him, too? _

_ …  _ **_If Harry dies_ ** _ … What would be left of him, but a drowned heart?  _

_ Oh, how he dreams for all of this to be different  _ –  _ but he always has known there was an abyss. And now he is falling. _

  
  


“Tom?”

Tom’s eyes fly open and, quickly, his own sight comes back into clear focus.

Peculiar how time can freeze still, motionless. Since his last  _ Defence Against the Dark Arts _ class, which has taken place just a week before the beginning of the winter break, his mind hasn’t been able to move on – what has happened with his Boggart is tormenting him when he’s wide awake, haunting him in his dreams, conquering and taking over his own imagination. 

In spite of himself, Tom is trapped into his own mind, where everything becomes both a real nightmare and an illusion. There seems to be no escape, a sheer physical pain in his ribs he can’t disregard as much as, back in the present moment, he can’t avert Harry’s concerned gaze.

Tom lifts his own chin and meets the younger boy’s bright eyes in the window in front of him  _ –  _ so lively, so intensely vivid. 

Everyone thinks of him as a mannered, composed and talented young wizard; but in reality it is a mere charade that binds Tom himself to an immense and constant strain of both sangfroid and self-discipline. Luckily for him, though, he had learnt the art of dissimulation the moment he had learnt to speak: it has always been easy to enchant others, to deceit them into trust and rely on him, to elicit a pinch of compassion for a poor orphan, so intelligent and liable… yet, Harry is the only one to hold the natural ability to make things always difficult for him. 

At this very moment no one would ever spot something unusual and strange of Tom’s features: he looks like a normal, handsome young wizard watching the snow falling faintly from the sky. Only Harry, no one else but him, can discern the translucent and morbid pallor of his face, the bundle of interview nerves underneath his skin, his charcoal eyes burning with a concealed secret.

With him Tom’s disguise has never worked – and somehow he finds himself relieved – because Harry has cared for him indefinitely and unconditionally, he has chosen him without thinking twice, with no prejudice nor doubts or fears altering his decisions, even though he has seen him for whom Tom truly is. 

Tom blinks his own eyes and realizes that his own hands have clenched and closed into fists and he wants to move them, to stretch his own fingers open, anything, but can’t break them free. A silent agony is clutching his own stomach and he is almost ashamed of himself for not being able to control it. 

He inhales slowly, collecting some patience, as his own nostrils flare.

“Harry,” He then grants him, low and quiet, allowing himself to taste the sound of his name as if it can bring him some solace – because the boy’s name on his own tongue has always felt right, a sweet lull for the senses.

Harry rushes his way toward him, his heels falling heavily on their bedroom’s floor, and his curls fly behind him as he walks. He comes to stand by Tom’s side, caressing briefly the back of his left hand with his own as he does. 

“You know…” The boy whispers before sulking his lips, pensively, staring out the window. “Sometimes I wonder if you really think I can’t see you.”

Tom hums calmly, stiffing his own jaw. Trying to feign some serenity, he curls his own lips in a mocking grin – but as he bows and turns his head to seek for Harry’s eyes without finding them, something very much akin to discomfort prompts his own chest to tighten insufferably, his breath to catch harrowingly.

“There are people who look without seeing.”

Harry startles silently. He frowns lightly while biting his lower-lip: he looks as if he’s thinking about something that has been on his mind for quite a time, but his expression for Tom, lost in his own torment, is now indichipheral.

“But there are also people,” Harry chides, his little features softening as he turns and raises his head to face him. “Who decides willingly not to see.”

Their eyes lock and Tom’s heart throbs faster, flaming everywhere within him, making him wonder if he would ever get used to the pounding of it. 

Harry is getting older, he is growing, and things are changing. Harry himself is changing – and as eager as Tom is for witnessing his growth, he is also afraid. Afraid of what they would become, of whom he would become, and plenty of different questions are storming in his own mind _ :  _ their magic is now taming one to the other, but what if it won’t as they grow older, would Harry want to follow him? Would he want to be with him? What if, perhaps, one day Harry would want to grow out of him; how would he react? Whenever he thinks about what a powerful wizard should be, Harry is the first person he thinks of. Tom finds himself struggling to understand how deeply his own heart, a sheltered ghost that has its roots within him, feels for the other; but would Harry think and feel the same about him, too, as years go by?

Outside, the wintry wind rattles in warning as the frantic whisper of the snow grows louder, unforgiving. A cold shiver runs down Tom’s spine, but it has very little to do with the exterior temperature.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, Tom?”

The oldest purses his own lips in a faint smile before offering a light shake of the head, prompting the other boy to sigh deeply, downcasted.

“You don’t like the snow, do you?” Harry asks again, stubborn in the heart. 

Tom, realizing how his own hands have relaxed the moment Harry came to stand by his own side, brings his own palms to rest flat on the windowsill as he turns his head to glance at the snow-storm roaring outside, somehow relieved by how the boy has diverted the conversation on something else. 

But Harry knows better: even if he might not be fully aware of it, he always knows how to aim for the weakest spot in both Tom’s heart and mind.

“It’s cold, and wet, and it also gets everywhere,” Tom whispers, blithely, skimming the wood of the windowsill with his own nails. “In your hair, your clothes, your shoes. It damps your socks.”

Harry’s giggles fondle his own ears, filled with mellow mirth; a sound he himself hopes for it to remain forever youthful and candid, untouched by more pain than the one he has already experienced. And even though Tom knows that what makes him so truly special and beautiful, so vivacious, is the ability with which Harry naturally turned his wounds into an ignited life force, he is not sure of how much of the boy’s sweetness and brilliance would survive as he grows older. Perhaps another thing he is afraid of: Harry’s loss of laughter. 

“I like it, even if it damps my socks!” The youngest mumbles, chewing his own lips to contain the light and fond chuckles. “It’s soft and it’s so pretty when it falls. Look…” He continues, voice echoing softly but loudly in the room, as he points one finger up the sky, pressing the tip of it against the window and beginning to draw invisible squiggles. “If only we could learn to fall with such grace, too.”

Tom’s lips twist in a rueful grin, his own face turning woeful. 

“Don’t be a fool, Harry,” He taunts quietly, peeking at him through the window, not turning his own head. “Why would you ever want to fall?”

Harry exhales lightly and the smile that curls his lips is a twisted sort of smile.

“I just think it’s easier for us to rise again only if we accept that sometimes the fall might be inevitable,” He whispers while turning his head to the side and peeps up at him tenderly, warming the cold shivers clinging to Tom’s bones. 

The oldest bows his own head to embrace his gaze: it is impossible to neglect his blazing emeralds, no matter if they would prompt him to fall apart.

“I mean, look at Mother Nature,” Harry says once their eyes lock together, tilting his finger away from the window as he begins to gesture with his hand, not to prove a point, but rather to help him see the things Tom alone cannot see, to welcome him into another domain. “There are seasons and the end of one is the beginning of another. Leaves fall willingly in autumn only because they know there will be spring.”

Only a chump would think Harry has the vice to romanticize life too much: he says things Tom himself would never say out loud and he says them with such a gentle fierce voice. Harry doubts and questions with his intellect as much as he explores, guided blindly by his mere instincts, always challenging himself to change and whereas Tom struggles to confess to himself his own fears, Harry welcomes his own as though they are old childhood friends.

“Don’t you think it’s beautiful?” Harry whispers, cocking his head to the side as he brings his hands to rest on the windowsill, merely inches away from where Tom’s own are, and his face is stained in utter contemplation. 

Tom nods lightly, lost in thoughts; eyes fixed on him. If, in this very moment, he dares to relax his own body, he would most probably fall apart; he would give in, revealing everything to him, and would never find his own way back to what and who he is now, because he would break down to pieces and would be forced to collect them back and start anew. He has always lived like this, it is the only way Tom has ever known how to live: to never surrender, because to surrender means to admit your flaws, your imperfections, your weaknesses, and someone might use them against you; to never show nor tell too much, because to show too much means to expose thoughts and feelings that were designed to remain disguised as they bring nothing but troubles; to never feel too much, to always endure, to always be impenetrable. 

He’s nothing, though, compared to Harry. Because Harry is beautiful: he might look like a normal eight years old kid but there are secrets hidden beneath the ethereality of his eyes; he is a breathing sunflower among bloody roses, he blooms brighter than anyone else as if he has swallowed the whole sun and has drunk so much light he finds himself now drowning in it. Harry, a symbol of perseverance and quiet strength; of life itself. 

_ Perhaps… he loves him in a way he himself cannot understand… and even though his own mind and heart fight every time the latter wants to beat, to break free from its cage… when it does, it does for him and him only… _

“Tom?”

Tom winces silently, coming back to his senses. He inhales silently as he turns to face the storm roaring outside, averting Harry’s concerned gaze.

He slowly runs a hand through his own hair and grips the back of his own neck, feeling his own cheeks heating up.

“What about the things that die in winter?”

Because everything perishes in winter: a young mother, almost frostbitten, knocking at the door of an Orphanage; blood on her clothes, on her hands.

_ His mother.  _

He startles once more, body growing suddenly stiffed, as the memory of Harry lying lifeless on the floor, buried vividly in his mind, rises to his conscience.

_ His blood slipping through cracks in the floor…  _

Tom’s eyes squeeze shut for only a moment, willing the memory away. Then he flexes his own hands, trying to work-out the pricking sensation crawling underneath his very skin, the numbing anxiety seizing his sore limbs. And once his eyes fly open again, he turns his head and meets directly Harry’s stare like a sailor finds his way back home by following the celestial aster. 

Harry is smiling, softly, and in his emeralds flickers the sensibile perspicacity of a child who grew up too much too quickly. He looks heartbreaking.

“Tom!” He cries out, warm tenderness creeping in his wobbling voice, as he props himself on his own toes and presses the palms of his hands flat upon the window’s glass. “Nature doesn’t die in Winter. She just goes to sleep, don’t you see?”

Harry’s eyes sparkle with amusement as he bites back a chuckle, and Tom can’t help but to find himself fascinated, so enchanted, as if placed under a spell. 

“She is asleep now but she’ll wake when she will be ready,” He explains, tilting his own hands away and clasping them together as he props his own elbows on the windowsill, fingers intertwined. He arches his back and as his mouth forms a pondered frown, he brings his tiny chin to rest upon his own knuckles. “She goes to sleep so she can be reborn. And when she will awake, she will be the same but also different. It’s a never ending story.”

His voice is an act of love, magic and music merging together, but it sinks into him like a dagger tears the flesh open, mangling beyond recognition, prompting Tom’s composure to crackle and inevitably fall apart.

“Like life, Tom. Even those who die keep on living in the ones who loved them,” He says, a mere whisper filled with mild and benevolent kindness; the kind of kindness that only blooms from within pain. “Light never forsaken us.”

His eyes, the colour of an evergreen tree, come to meet Tom’s own through the window and they exchange a look so deep and meaningful that soothing chills creep down Tom’s spine. 

He would do anything for him. Anything, for his laughter to keep on echoing with mirth; anything, for his eyes to keep on burning bright with passion and curiosity and kindness; anything, for his heart to keep on beating fiercely; anything, he would cheat any rule and moral obligation.

_ He would fight Death alone and drag him out. _

“How can you think this…” Tom mumbles, low and huskily, as his own nostrils flare and he steps away from the window, coming to sit on Harry’s bed; he doesn’t know if he has referred to him or himself. 

_ Harry’s empty eyes… the void of his irises… _

The oldest cocks his own head to watch him, wishing for him to get closer, for the warmth of Harry’s soul to set his own heart on fire, for his lively emeralds to wash his own haunting memories away like holy water washes away one’s sins. And meeting Tom’s pleading gaze, as though he had read his thoughts, the youngest swallows hard and walks towards him at a slow pace even if his words are a hefty thwack in the stomach. 

“Because my mother died to protect me,” Harry utters solemnly, low and yet resolute; determination twisting his features, something very much akin to devotion bringing his eyes to blaze with starry vehemence. “I am alive because of her, because that night she didn’t step aside.”

When Harry comes to stand before him and Tom spreads slightly his own legs open to welcome him, he raises both his hands to caress Tom’s hair.

“Harry–”

“She saved me,” The boy cuts him off, softly, twirling a lock of Tom’s hair between his fingers; his lips curl faintly, hinting at a faint smile, overspilling a nostalgic grief. “As your mother did, differently, too.”

A cold shiver runs down Tom’s spine, but the sweet scent of clover honey coming from Harry’s hair is too overwhelming for him to lose sight of himself.

“My mother didn’t die  _ for  _ me,” He whispers coldly, almost apathetic, trying to detach himself from the matter. “She chose to die because she was  _ weak _ .”

Even as he closes his eyes, he can feel the youngest’s upon him: they hold the same intensity as those of an angel coming to stand in front of a deathbed. 

“Those who suffer aren’t weak, Tom,” He hears him whisper, slowly and deeply, his fingers fondling with gentle care, as if Tom is the only solid thing in the world, the hair at the back of his own head. “And your mother, even in her suffering, chose Death because giving life to her son was more important than her own. How could that be weak?”

Harry’s voice is draining him, his touch is prompting his own heart to constrict in his own ribs, tormenting the cadence of his own breath; such dangerous and painful things, and yet these are the things he loves the most about him.

_ Love… is this what really binds him to the boy? _

The youngest moves closer as he receives no answer from him and cups Tom’s face with the bare palms of his hands with a firm and yet loose hold.

_ Grow up, Tom, become the most powerful wizard the World has ever seen; make them fear you, make them tremble at the mere sight of you; make them perish all the burdens you had to carry, because their pain is the only thing able to satisfy your sanguinary desire of vengeance; loneliness means nothing to you, you need no one… not the father who neglected you, nor the mother who abandoned you… nor Harry, because you are cold and made of ice and cynicism and… no, no, please, no, not him… he needs him… he wants him…  _

Of all things, his mind has a masochistic way of reminding him what such burden is to have a beating heart; yet he seems incapable of snapping out of it. Because to bury his own emotions he would have to push Harry away, too.

_ And he can’t do that, how could he? _

Tom’s shoulders seem to finally relax as his own back arch slightly, prompting him to realize how much his own body has turned stiff. 

“We have this thing, you and I,” Harry whispers, a soft puff of air against his Tom’s forehead, and the tip of his nose presses against it a moment later, his magic embracing his own in his blood. “We live in the doubts of things that could have happened or could still happen. But we are just hurting ourselves.”

_ Harry drowning is a puddle of blood, his body not even wincing; his face too pale, his empty eyes begging him to let him go… years ago he would have died to get his attention and Tom wouldn’t have cared… but he smiled, he saw right through him, he listened, he laughed, he loved… he loved… his eyes killed him softly with the weight of his love, many and many times before… if he dies, it would be Tom’s fault, his fault, only his fault… because he knows nothing about love, all he ever knew was how to bring ruin and devastation…  _

“Why are you telling me this?” Tom asks, frowning deeply under Harry’s touch, and he doesn’t recognise the tone of his own voice; too low, too moved, too anguished, there is too much hurt he can’t even see it. 

As a sudden silence falls upon them, he lifts his own head upward.

Harry’s cheeks flame red when their gazes lock. Then, not trying to hide his amused grin, Tom drops his own attention to the scar on his forehead and his charcoal eyes glitter as they roam all over Harry’s face, scanning each detail of his gentle features as if to frame this very moment in the infinity of time.

In a heartbeat, then, his own hands move: Tom slowly extends his arms toward him, embracing his tiny and fragile waist to pull him closer, grinning openly as the youngest gasps, surprised. Harry totters on his feet and his lower lip protrudes in an embarrassed, sulky pout as cherry-red blooms down his neck, making his features look more seraphic, and to not lose his own balance, he clenches lightly Tom’s hair between his fingers. 

Tom jerks tenderly his body, not loosening his own grip over him.

“Answer me.” 

Harry takes a deep breath and meets his own gaze, prompting Tom’s heart to give a loud thud, his grin to falter and slowly fall off his lips.

_ How could his eyes hold so much love within them? After everything that had happened to him, how could he still be this strong? _

“Because you’re not alone, Tom,” Harry utters, blowing out the breath he has been holding, as he twirls a lock of the older wizard’s hair around his right index. Tom swallows hard before opening his mouth to ask why on earth he’s saying such a thing now, but Harry cuts him off readily, his gaze sparkling with a shy but resolute determination. “So whatever will come your way, we will face it together.”

The oldest stares back at him, unblinking and speechless, unable to shake the warmth coiling in his own chest. Inevitably, the grip around Harry’s waist tightness, prompting him to tighten his own hold upon his hair as a response. For a moment Tom thinks he can feel the boy’s heart playing tricks on him, throbbing wildly in his ribs, forcing him to gather all the bravado he can master to not flush red.

“I mean,” Harry mumbles under his breath as he hops from one foot to the other, feeling suddenly awkward; he doesn’t aver his own eyes, and the oldest can glimpse a spark of hope burning bright in his irises. “You have me, but also Sirius and Remus, you know… sounds like a family, doesn’t it?”

Tom grips Harry’s jumper so tightly he is afraid he might tear its woolen threads and glares at him, lifting a brow.

_ A family? He feels so stupid and idle and miserable just at the thought of it, and yet…  _

“What are we, then?” He whispers huskily, rough and deep; his own voice, despite himself, as lethal as a sword wrapped in silk. “Brothers?”

Harry’s right hand reaches over, brushing a strand of hair off Tom’s forehead, tucking it behind his ear. 

“We are many things,” The boy chuckles softly and his eyes light up; clusmly, then, he takes a step back, freeing himself from their embrace, and grins widely. “We can be as many things as we want to be, can’t we?”

Tom’s lips curl in an amused smile and Harry’s hands slither down his neck, shifting further down both of his arms. Slowly, they fold over the back of Tom’s own hands, waiting for him to decide the next move. 

He feels the lightness of Harryt’s touch taking root in his own body, sinking down his own blood, curling its way through his own veins, taking over him, annihilating the coldness of his own bones – they have known each other for two years, but he has never grown tired of his hands nor of the warmth they and only they could linger. Each caress still feels like the first. 

Tom lets his own fingers latch with Harry’s and the world goes utterly quiet. 

There is nothing else but their eyes upon each other. 

***

_ Tom moves swiftly through the darkness.  _

_ Something is calling him: low but insistent, an alluring hiss he can’t push aside. It grows louder, more demanding and consuming, at each step he takes down the narrowed corridor.  _

_ He tiptoes with a slow and controlled pace, heart pounding with each movement, and his entire body buzzles with nerves. Reaching the end of the dark corridor, he finds himself outside a room with its wooden door ajar. _

_No doubt the sibilant hiss was coming from inside: he can feel it vibrating in his bones and a cold, long shiver runs down his spine like an electric discharge –_ _an icy trickle in the heat of his own desolation._

_ He holds his breath, slipping silently in the room as undetected as a snake creeping during its hunting. Inside, the smell of mold and stale air filling his nostrils, it takes a moment for his vision to adjust. _

_ Then, fear and rage swirl together in a cacophony as his body trembles, shattering the composure of his solid and rigid features. _

_ On the ground, Harry’s body is resting unconscious, almost lifeless, surrounded by his own blood: his eyes, fixed on the ceiling, empty; his skin translucent, the ghost of tears marking his cheeks. He is wearing a white, long robe that makes his wretched body look like an offering, a holy sacrifice. _

_ “Harry?” He calls him, voice merely a weak whisper, praying for a response.  _

_ But nothing comes back to him and he can’t drag his gaze away, pulse thrumming. He shakes his head and a knot in his dry throat prompts him to catch on his breath when he dares to step closer. _

_ It’s a dream… It’s only a dream… Harry is not dead he is not dead he can’t be dead it’s not real wake up wake up wake up wake up you fool wake up…  _

_ He startles, freezing on the spot.  _

_ Harry’s chest has been ripped open and somber crimson blood is copiously flowing out of it – there is so much of it, too much, he knows he will never be able to erase the sight of it from his own memory. _

_ He drags in breath and after breath as he kneels on the ground, not by choice but because his legs have failed to keep him standing still, and his left hand runs to his wand, fingers trembling as panic seizes him, conquering his mind, prompting his heart to twist in agony in his ribs.  _

_ He casts a healing spell, his voice shaking and wobbling as it has never been before, the metallic scent of death prompting his nostrils to flare.  _

_ Unable to help the excruciating pain in his own body, the sickening dizziness, he watches Harry’s flesh healing at a slow pace, the blood on the floor re-entering his lifeless body – but as he blinks, the boy’s wounds reopen and as they do more blood flows out of him.  _

_ Seized by a consuming anxiety, panting, Tom tries again and again, over and over; he tries different healing spells, too, but none of them seems to work because each time he tries a different charm the wounds reopen, and each time the scraps seem to cut deeper and deeper in the boy’s flesh he thinks for a moment if it is him himself, the one who is killing him. _

_ It can’t end… It can’t end… His life can’t end like this… He needs to wake up, now, he needs to… He is covered in Harry’s blood… He didn’t know his own body could tremble this much… He feels something in his own eyes, too, causing his vision to blurry… it can’t be… it can’t be it can’t be it can’t be…  _

_ A wicked presence arises at his back. _

_ “This is all your fault,” His mother whispers in his ear, looming behind him; her voice, cold and filled with venom, sinking into his bones. “You’re too weak.” _

_Crooking over Harry, embracing his tiny body in his own arms with the hope to prevent him from slipping away –_ _stay, don’t leave me here, i can’t take it, i can’t take this, too; but isn’t he himself the one has been sucking his life like a parasite, consuming it? Since Tom has known him, all he has ever done is stealing a piece of Harry’s soul, drinking it up without having the real intention to do so, envying the way Harry never broke even though he has always surrendered to his own flaws and weaknesses, turning them into passional strength, whereas the weight of Tom’s heart has always choked him, he is only thirteen and already fears Death – he breaks the silence with a desperate, insane and weeping scream, feeling it vibrating in his chest, prompting his throat to tighten; sated with racking grief he cannot stop his hands, stained with Harry’s blood, from touring his own hair… he screams… and screams until his voice breaks… he thinks might die, too, because the pain is lacerating… as if his own soul is being ripped apart…_

Tom’s body jerks, his lids fly abruptly open and the world falls upon him like a fatal stab in the eye. With weak arms, he slowly throws off the sheets and sits up, allowing the cold of the night to pour in his skin, sinking down his bones. 

In a heartbeat, his own toes touch the solid floor and he tilts his head toward Harry’s bed, seeking his silhouette in the deep blackness of the room: the younger boy is sleeping peacefully with his mouth ajar, lips chapped, his left cheek is pressed softly against the pillow, chest rising and falling in a sweet rhythm – out of habit, he always dozed off while looking in Tom’s direction.

He blinks, swallowing an annoyed groan as a sense of nausea takes over him, forcing him to stand up. Quickly, growing sick by the seconds, not trying to control the cold shivers running down his own body, from head to toes, he rushes to the bathroom. Once he is inside, he closes the door behind his back and turns the lights on. Ignoring his own discomfort, then, not knowing what else to do, his fingertips tingling as he turns the bathtub’s taps open, he inhales and exhales violently and the sound of hot pouring water fills his ears.

Impatient, unable to set his own breathing, he decides to slip out of his pyjama’s clothes as he waits for the tub to be ready. 

Finding a balance in this impetuous mayhem of emotions is the most difficult challenge he has ever had to face in life: he has never been tortured this much by his own emotions, the ones he himself has neglected somewhere along the way –  _ because men murder each other all the time and they definitely have no second thoughts in slaughtering their emotions, too _ . 

His shirt gets caught on his left elbow and he has to yank it to take it off. Chest stinging with goosebumps, he peers down at the bathtub while trying to control his breathing as he tugs down his own pants and underwear with a single pull. 

His own stomach twists in pain, but Tom shakes his head firmly and closes the bathtub’s taps before silently immersing himself in the water. 

He washes his face before lathering his body with soap, working methodically to keep himself busy, but his mind keeps on taunting him with horrific images. 

_ Harry’s blood on his hands… on his clothes… on his hair as he…  _

He rubs his own skin with uncaring vigor, keeping his own eyes wide open as though to strain himself to not fall apart, to remain enslaved into the steady reality of things. He falls absently into a routine, feeling his own pulse growing heavier by the second: pouring water all over his arms and shoulders, his neck and chest, scrubbing; scrubbing until his own fingers ache, but the vivid memory of Harry’s blood on his hands never leave him.

_ He knows he is awake and yet he can still hear an evil hiss calling him, alluring him in, he can feel the lifeless weight of Harry’s body in his arms, his mother’s words in his ears… perhaps his own despair is taking him straight into the embrace of madness… he was used to cherishing such peaceful moments, when he was left alone with his own thoughts… but now, as nothing but agony crushes his inside, he feels as if he’s drowning in his own misery…  _

A small noise coming from the door prompts him to startle, to come back to his senses… or whatever is left of them.

He doesn’t turn his own head to look at him because his emerald eyes pinch down his own skin and his voice reaches his own ears like a thump, sounding heavy and concerned. 

“Tom.”

He’s naked and most probably pale like a ghost, taking a bath in the middle of the night, his own shoulders are trembling even though a warm moisture has filled the air in the room – not a reassuring vision, no doubts about it.

“Leave,” He hisses coldly, the action nearly choking him; he feels his own bottom lip quivering as something akin to shame spreads inside himself.

He swallows hard and turns his head toward the boy, a sharp but fraught motion, attempting his own narrowed gaze to look menacing. But as their eyes lock, Harry’s features soften for just a moment before turning solid again.

“No.”

Tom’s hands clench on the edge of the bathtub and whatever thread of composure he has been clutching to, finally snaps and his own features twist with torment – he doesn’t want to be seen like this, so lost and so not in control of himself, so vulnerable, so damnly and humanly  _ weak _ .

“Excuse me?”

“No.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm the anxiety rising within himself. 

“Believe me, Harry, this is no right time for you to act like a child. I can–”

“I know you can take perfect care of yourself, Tom,” Harry cuts him off, prompting Tom to curl his own hands into fists to focus on the pain of his nails sinking into his skin rather than his own tremors. “But you don’t have to.”

A wince threatens to escape from his own lips as the youngest steps closer to the bath, but Tom holds it in, biting his own tongue with a raw cruelty.

Harry’s eyes scan each detail of his own features with the hope to figure out what is going on and what has caused Tom to panic. Silently, then, averting his inquisitive soft gaze, the oldest hides his own hands into the water and takes a few, deep breaths, stretching his fingers. 

Tom tries to steel himself against an abrupt wave of aching anxiety when the younger boy bends his right knee to the floor, rolling up the sleeves of his pyjama shirt, and his own heart twists.

“I’m here,” Harry whispers and Tom feels his own throat as it dries, his own heart as it twists and winces with an amber of hopeless longing. “Please, Tom, let me. I’m here.”

Harry doesn’t touch him, waiting for his approval, and a quiver moves through the oldest as if it is meant to swallow him whole and spit him out.

For a moment, he wonders if this torture of the soul would ever stop chasing him – but in the blink of the eye, he finds himself nodding lightly. 

Tom shuts his eyes closed as Harry’s fingers slide up his own hair, fondling and rubbing them softly. The warmth of the boy’s gentle touch spreads quickly, prompting Tom’s magic to warm up in his own blood, embracing the other’s. 

An exquisite tender love flows fearless, unyielding and endless, throughout their bond and the intensity of it almost destroys him.

He inhales deeply, then, as Harry pours water onto his own head and starts to wash his damped hair. Tom’s body relaxes under his light touch, each stroke feels like a soft kiss to the heart; the nerve endings in his own scalp unwind, prompting him to lean his own back against the edge of the bathtub and bow his head to ease Harry’s movement.

“I know something has happened,” Harry mumbles while applying some shampoo into his own hands, rubbing his palms together before rubbing them upon the Slytherin’s head, slowly, with a mellow daintiness. “You’ve looked troubled all week. You might have tried to hide it from Remus and Sirius, but how could you have thought to hide it from me, too?”

Tom hums with hesitation, lips twisting in a faint smirk, prompting Harry to snort with a frustrated amusement. He feels his tiny fingers roaming around his own head in a froth of shampoo lather, invading the thinnest veil separating Tom’s innermost thoughts from the harsh world; Harry’s voice, lulling him through the desolation of his own soul.

“I can always tell when something is eating you up, Tom.”

The boy’s fingernails stroke gingerly on Tom’s scalp and a soothing intimacy makes the older wizard’s heart leap lively, crying happily in his ribs. 

_ He has never felt this looked out and cared for, this safe – it might be heaven, but it feels as if the sky is falling all over him. _

“I–” His own breath catches, thwarting him from confessing everything. Tom inhales slowly and waits for Harry to pour water into his own hair once more to wash away the shampoo before blinking his eyes open. “I’ve met my Boggart.”

As Harry tilts his hands away and wipes his wet palms against his pyjamas pants, their gazes lock together. He frowns and bites his bottom lip, an expression he uses when he’s both concentrated and curious.

“What’s a Boggart?”

“It’s a shape-shifter,” Tom utters, forcing his own voice to sound as firm and solid as ever; but his heart is throbbing viciously in his ribs, making his pulse race grievously. “It takes on the form of your worst fear.”

“When did this happen?”

“During a lesson. Before the beginning of the winter break.”

Harry looks over at him but Tom averts his attentive gaze. He feels his green eyes prickling the exposed skin of his own neck and shoulders, his features softening lightly; his voice, like a soft glow of a lantern.

“And what did you see?”

Tom’s anxiety carves him in half but when Harry raises his right hand, twirling a wet lock of hair in his fingers, his touch keeps the pieces together; the boy has moved as though he had sensed the tension rising underneath him. 

Their magic is connected to one another, enabling them to channel their own emotions into one another in a way neither of the two has yet understood entirely. Yet, there are no doubts Harry has no problem reading and understanding and feeling and invading him even out of their magical bond. 

Tom inhales, then slowly exhales. He would like his own mind to be apathetic, but logic doesn’t seem able to penetrate his own anxiety and dread rising up inside him, reminding him of the remnants of his nightmare. 

He stares at the wall in front of him and flinches when a cold shiver runs down and caresses his own spine, forcing him to relive all the horrible images and scents and sounds he is trying hard to forget for the sake of his own sanity. 

Quietly, then, feeling Harry’s eyes fixed on him, Tom blows out a defeated breath. “Death.”

Silence sweps around the room and Harry’s hand twitches as he ceases to twirl a lock of Tom’s hair. 

Feeling on the verge to lose sight of himself, Tom turns his head to face him, but startles as he does. Harry’s eyes embrace his own and a powerful blast of overwhelming emotions tears through their bond – the boy looks calm, somehow collected, but Tom can feel his heart throbbing as fast as his own is.

He presses his own lips into a thin line, furious with himself.

_ What on earth was he thinking… _

“It wasn’t–” He tries to explain, swallowing the acid in his voice, but in a heartbeat the youngest cuts him off with a fierce determination and Tom can spot a glimpse of raw, unbridled strength in his wild irises.

“Nothing is ever going to happen to you.”

His coal-eyes burst wide open and he holds completely still, waiting, unable to react. With shaking lips, Tom watches Harry as the boy raises himself up and smiles down at him with a fervent tenderness the Slytherin has never seen impressed on his face ever before.

“ _ Nothing _ , Tom,” He repeats while slowly brushing his own pants, stressing fearlessly on the word; his voice sounds suddenly more mature, dense like a seashell winking in the sun. “I would do anything to protect you.”

The oldest feels his own blood pulsing with Harry’s magic, almost lovingly caressing his veins. His own hands close into fists, nails digging into the flesh until the sensation ceases to make his heart cry out with need, and he can barely breathe. A sound like cracking fire is pounding in his own ears.

“Harry…”

Tom sucks in a sharp breath when the boy’s eyes fall into his own once more, emeralds shining with flecks of burning tenacity as if they want to pierce the very marrow of his own bones. 

_ Beautiful, seething with life. A creature of Light, dangerously lethal. _

Tom fights the urge to hide away while holding their gazes together. He can’t drag his attention from him, worried the world would crash him if he dares to.

“It’s not my death that concerns me.”

The weight of his own words prompts Tom’s throat to dry, his own breath to shake, and the realization hits him as hard as a fist to the face. He feels like standing on the edge of a shore, watching the sea raging violently beneath. 

_ How did this happen… when and how have things changed so irremediably?  _

His own nostrils flare as Harry’s magic accidentally slithers through his own, circling him before shyly slinking away, as though to remind him there is no place for neither of them to hide but each other’s side. 

“Wait,” Harry mumbles, angling his face. He blinks once, then twice; his lips depart slowly, his eyes widen under his glasses, staring down at him like he has never seen him before. “What do you mean?”

Tom sighs soundlessly when an undiluted shiver shoots through him, prompting the muscle in his jaw to strain and set. 

“Can you grab me a towel?”

Confusion drips off the other boy. The Slytherin can feel it vibrating off him and, as it winds its way into his own blood, he has to force himself to breathe. 

Harry quickly grabs a towel and holds it out for him, firmly closing his eyes as though to leave him some privacy, and Tom sneers tenderly at the thought of it while holstering himself out of the water. He wraps the towel around his own waist and sits on the edge of the tub, crossing his arms upon his chest before crossing his legs. 

He then tilts his gaze to meet the other’s, but Harry doesn’t blink his eyes open. With his expression close to embarrassment, the younger boy twitches his tiny fingers together – he looks suddenly unsure but his voice echoes strongly in the room, prompting a deep sense of great fondness to spread through Tom’s chest.

“Listen…” Harry whispers patiently, before swallowing hard; he speaks slowly, as if he’s choosing the words very carefully. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. I don’t want to force you, Tom, I just want you to know that you can talk to me, always, about anything you want.”

Tom’s heart wrings, tingling in warning. Slowly, his eyes take a sweep of Harry’s body, the way he is holding his hands upon his chest in a silent prayer, fingers intertwined together, his lips twisted in a sulky pout, before dragging his own attention back to his face. The boy is straining himself to be patient, to wait for him to close the gap separating him from his own thoughts; he is lovely, bright as a star in the night of his mind, blooming all over him.

_ One day he will burn for this. One of these days, his body will start to shriek. _

“I’m afraid,” Tom snaps and swallows, straightening his back as though the words have caused a knot in his throat. Harry blinks his eyes open, genuinely surprised by the raspy shakiness of his own voice, looking as if he’s holding in his own breath not to break such an intimate moment of inviolable revelation.

There’s a beat of silence and Tom clenches his fists. He takes a deep breath and raises his eyebrows, but Harry, studying his charcoal eyes and the way they roam all over his own body and face, gestures for him to continue. 

The oldest cocks his head, defenseless. And without thinking, he continues. 

“I’m afraid to lose something very important to me.”

_ I’m afraid to lose you, Harry. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be strong enough to save you, I’m afraid for my weakness to be the cause of your Death. I’m afraid to be afraid. I’m afraid of this feeling binding me to you. I’m afraid, perhaps, one day nothing will be left of me but you. I’m afraid… i’m afraid i’m afraid i’m afraid and i don’t know what to do what to think i know nothing…  _

Harry steps into view, breaking into his own thoughts. 

“Something or someone?” The boy chides, his voice fond enough to stab him and make his own breath catch. “Because they’re not the same thing, Tom.”

Something sprighty lurks in his green irises, forged deep in the pits of his soul, and Tom has to divert his own gaze down to his chest, focusing his own attention on the wet stains of shampoo on his shirt, feeling as though his own heart would be consumed by his spirit if he would have stared long enough.

“Don’t.”

Tom startles as Harry steps closer and a soft heat radiates off his magic, prompting the oldest to bite his own tongue the moment it takes over his own veins, seizing him entirely. The younger boy comes to stand in front of him, solemn in his childish features, and he smells of warm summer days and cinnamon, so at odds with the wintery weather outside. 

“Don’t hide from me,” Harry pleads, quiet and yet demanding, causing a sudden temptation to surge through Tom, obliterating all senses, and his own mouth goes dry when the boy grabs another towel and tosses it over his own head, pulling Tom down before raising himself on his little bare toes to vigorously rub the older wizard’s wet hair. 

Tom freezes, but he doesn’t fight him because Harry has moved so swiftly, he hasn’t even seen him take another towel. He watches him lingering a moment before taking a step back, crossing his arms upon his chest to mirror Tom’s own posture, as if too many emotions are raging within himself.

The oldest takes a deep breath before pursuing his own lips, rolling his shoulders as though to undo the tension in them, feeling suddenly exhausted: the very act of opening himself up to him has drained what little remained of his already precarious imperturbability and now he is left with nothing but naked honesty, his own unshielded wounds out in the open for him to sting. 

“You’re too smart to not know what I’m talking about, Harry.”

Harry cocks his head to the side, his eyes open wide with astonishment and, as Tom blinks, a scarlet red blooms all over his cheeks, the tip of his ears. 

A silence falls upon them, pleasant like the warmth coming off a fireplace. 

Somehow, the quietness between them isn’t awkward nor unbearable: it seems they both need some time to process what is happening. 

Harry’s features have loosened, following and mirroring Tom’s own, and he looks as if someone has just revealed to him a very important secret, something he wasn’t expecting and yet wishfully hoping for. Tom himself is feeling as shocked and dazzled since he hasn’t planned to reveal this much of what has been troubling him for what now feels to be ages.

At first being bounded to Harry have prevented him from lying, as they could easily feel each other’s emotions, and even though things have gotten better once they grew used to one another – when he has found it easier than he thought it to be, to envelop the other boy into his own private world – Tom has never been this open and honest about his own feelings, not with Harry and neither, definitely, with himself: he has never let himself go freely with his own emotions. He didn’t even know he could feel such a tenderous yearning until Harry came into his life, until he had felt it streaming profusely out of him, ungovernable, seizing both his body and mind. His own soul ached atrociously with the weight of it all, but whatever this thing between them was, they were always in it together. 

_ He should have known better.  _

Tom shakes his head, washing his own thoughts away. He rubs his wet hair with the towel Harry has given him, feeling his own blood seething with the memory of the boy’s magic, icicles creeping up his own bare arms. 

Silently, he peeps briefly at him.

Tom opens his mouth, finally ready to speak, but Harry holds up his right hand to stall him, still staggered.

“You know,” The boy anticipates him, voice merely a soft whisper. He cocks his head to the side and lowers his arm, waiting a beat before continuing. “If I hadn’t met you, my life would have been a complete living Hell.”

Harry looks serene, and even though his lips are curled in the most adorable smile Tom has ever seen, his eyes are sharp, piercing down his own skin like a dard – there’s something blazing vividly in the green of his irises and Tom tries to ignore the way his own stomach squeals as he holds his gaze, waiting. 

“You–” Harry mumbles, blushing shyly, before swallowing hard. He inhales deeply and rubs the tip of own chin with his index finger as though to collect the courage to speak the words out of his mouth. “You’ve saved me, Tom.”

Tom’s heart misses a beat. He closes his eyes and pursues his lips together, fighting the sudden urge to sit down on the ground when a sudden tremor tickles his knees. And even if his own heart is beating strongly in his ears, he can hear the youngest as he puffs his cheeks before blowing out his voice. 

“That’s why I would trust you with my life,” Harry utters, suddenly solemn and resolute, prompting Tom to blink, astonished, paralyzed. “Always.”

The older wizard’s breath cracks loudly, his charcoal eyes widening even more, and Harry totters quickly on his feet. A deep-crimson red blooms all over the boy’s face, down his neck, his nostrils flaring as if he’s about to jump out of his very skin, and Tom doesn’t know what to say, he can’t find the words; he can’t even find his own voice, he doesn’t remember if he has one.

Harry has just broken down a concentre wall and almost choked him to death and he is now struggling to stay calm. Foreign goosebumps rise across his own naked body, swallowing him whole, and he doesn’t know what else to do but for his own unblinking eyes to follow the other kid’s clumsy movements around the bathroom. 

Harry crooks down on the floor to collect Tom’s clothes, chuckling softly to laugh his own timid shepiness away.

“Alrighty then,” He breathes, his voice scarcely a whisper, offering him a sympathetic smile while holding Tom’s clothes out for him to grab. “Are you going to put this on? Or do you want to catch a cold?” 

***

The morning sunlight creeps through the window, both a relief and a fright, coming to caress his lids. Everything is so utterly quiet.

Tom blinks his eyes open, slowly, feeling a heavy weight on his own stomach, his chest and collarbone. He tilts his head and peers down at Harry’s body lying upon his own, still deep-asleep, embraced by the loosened clasp of his own arms around his back, above his slim shoulder-blades. 

He feels dizzy and sore, his mind turns and turns through everything that has happened that night: after coming back in their room, Harry has asked if he could sleep in his bed – they weren’t used to sleeping together and they did so only on rare occasions, normally after Harry had awoken from a nightmare, but Tom has been too tired to object, his anxiety has dissolved into a sudden and heavy sleepiness that caused him to struggle to rationalize his own thoughts and emotions, so he has simply had let him be. 

He drags a hand through the boy’s ruffled hair and tugs at the roots, humming quietly when Harry shifts closer and the tip on his nose rubs around the crook of his own neck, a little hand coming to rest at the back of his own shoulder. 

A faint puff of warm air caresses Tom’s skin, quickly followed by a soft grunt.

“Good morning.”

Tom’s arms fall backward onto the bed as he watches Harry stirring clumsily all over him before loosening his own embrace, and a slight smile curls on his own lips as the younger boy makes a deep noise inside his throat. 

“Good morning, Harry.”

Harry grasps his glasses under Tom’s pillow and tilts his own head back before wearing them, adjusting them on his nose. 

He then props himself onto his own elbows on the older wizard’s chest and his eyes shine with a bright gleam as his lips form a sleepy greeting. 

“Happy birthday, Tom.”

Tom’s jaw tenses lightly and he lets his own eyes shift lazily to the ceiling, sighing in surrender. At that, Harry explodes.

The boy jerks himself up and props his own knees onto Tom’s stomach, making him cough loudly and hoarsely, breathless, clutching the bedsheets like they might be a shield. Tom tries to shove him, hard but not too rude, but when Harry doesn’t bulge, he grabs the pillow underneath his own head and tosses it toward the youngest, forcing him, amused and panicked all at once, to fall by his own side to dodge it. 

“You don’t get to be moody on your birthday!” Harry snaps, glaring, curling on his side while poking Tom in the shoulder, his arm, anywhere he can reach, as Tom throws intentionally-poorly aimed fists in his direction, his own husky and low laughter mixing with the boy’s mirthful one. “This is your special day, we must–Tom! Stop it, enough!–we must celebrate!”

Suddenly, Tom holds up his hands and Harry exhales deeply, tilting his own right hand to his eyes, wiping away tears of laughter with his knuckles. Quietly, then, breathing hard, they both stare at each other: the boy’s gaze sweeps across the older wizard’s face, studying him under a new light, reminding him of how they have felt asleep last night while peering steadily at one another as if waiting patiently for the other to fall asleep before dozing off themselves. 

It shocks him to think how much between them everything has changed in these past years and yet remained the same as it has always been. He feels, however, like a totally different person and it is somehow both liberating and painful – and it’s him who has to blame, it’s him who has to thank. 

Tom blinks and turns on his own side, feeling the weight of Harry’s gaze, and raises an eyebrow at him. The boy is looking at him, pensively. 

“What are you thinking about?”

Harry goes pink. He waves a hand and laughs, shaking his head. 

“Hold on!” He yelps, suddenly transfixed by a spot above Tom’s head, and Tom watches him raising himself up and sitting on bed, his lips twisting in a broad smile. “Sirius and Remus got you presents, too. But I want to give you mine now!”

Tom feels his own cheeks heating up. He sits, then, mirroring the other boy quietly, and crosses his legs together before shooting him a confused look, as though he hasn’t heard him correctly, that prompts Harry to chuckle amusingly, his green eyes mocking him tenderly, watching him a second as Tom digests the words before getting quickly out of bed. 

Puffing softly, Harry pads barefoot across the floor and opens the wardrobe. 

The older wizard stares at him sceptically, his brows raised, and has to muffle a surprised gasp once the younger boy rushes across the room again, holding two green packages in his tiny hands. Excited, then, he drops on his own knees as he falls back into bed, sitting restlessly in front of the other. 

“This first!” Harry urges, pushing one package onto Tom’s hands, shooting him a cheery glance as the oldest scoots over to the wall behind him, placing his own feet on the boy’s legs. 

Tom’s fingers tremble slightly when he unwraps his gift. He takes a deep, measured breath and pulls the wrapping paper with a composed delicance, not wanting to destroy it and yet eager to find whatever is hidden underneath. 

His charcoal eyes are focused on the present, firmly seized by his own hands, but he can hear Harry’s intake of breath as he unveils it. 

It’s a black leather journal. Tom scans it slowly, awestruck, flickering through the blank pages as his heart hammers in his ribs: it’s small and thin, exquisitely elegant; on the back cover of it, right at the top, the words _ T. M. Riddle _ are etched smoothly in gold. 

A grateful, genuine smile curls softly on his own lips.

_ He knows him so well.  _

“It’s beautiful, Harry. Thank you.”

Harry takes a steadying breath before holding out for him the second package. It looks smaller than the first, yet heavier. 

“Now this one.”

Tom pushes the wrapping paper aside and pulls the diary into his own lap, bringing his hands to seize a hold onto whatever Harry is giving him.

The boy’s expression is impossible to read, both joy and fear combined in an unholy marriage, and Tom hums before flashing his own teeth, fascinated. 

His own smile fills with delight as he begins to unwrap the second gift, but it quickly falls off his lips and his throat closes, his tongue growing suddenly dry. 

Nestled in black velvet, there is a heavy golden-octagon locket, beautiful unlike anything he’s ever seen. 

Leisurely, Tom runs his fingers across its edges, feeling his eyes narrowing as he examines his gift attentively: black steel frames a glittering hoary gemstone, inlaid right at the center of the locket, pulsating lively some powerful and unconcealed magic; engraved on its edges, spreading outward and yet winding around the gemstone, there are blooming carnation’s flowers.

He carefully flips it over, glimpsing a single incision on its back, small and refined,  _ memento mei.  _

_ Remember me. _

Staring at it, he can almost feel a twinge of Harry’s warmth burning him, and his own heart misses a beat.

“What is this?” Tom asks in a low, hoarse voice, as he lifts his own chin suddenly up and meets Harry’s enchanted gaze. 

Harry bites down on his lower-lip for a beat. Then he clasps his hands around Tom’s bare feet, brushing his own thumbs lightly against his ankles. 

“It’s called the geminatio’s stone,” He whispers, leaning forward with his shoulders, and a soft gleam in the green of his irises prompts a gentle shiver to caress the back of Tom’s neck as their eyes lock together. “I have one, too.”

Tom watches him, extremely curious, as Harry shoves his hand into the left pocket of his pjamay’s pants and pulls out of it a locket identical to his own.

“They’re twins, you see,” Harry whispers while quickly wearing his own locket, wrapping his tiny fingers around it and squeezes it. “The gemstone inlaid in both was once the same, but it had been divided into two matching pieces.”

Both thunderstruck and misbelieving, Tom glances from the locket in his own hands to the boy’s sparkling eyes, staring at him attentively, and Harry, swallowing heavily, twists his own lips into a soft grin before closing his eyes.

“Watch this,” He demands, steadying himself. 

Not knowing what to expect, and definitely not knowing what to look at, Tom keeps his own eyes focused on the boy’s rigid features. He inhales quietly, trying to make no sound to not disturb him, and crosses his legs together as he leans forward, feeling his own heart drumming madly.

He grows impatient with each second that flies by, almost anxious. 

Yet, right when he is on the verge to ask him what is going on, an abrupt warmth coming from his own locket pierces his skin, slithering underneath it like a fleeing snake: it merges with the magic in his own blood and Tom’s breath comes hard and fast, matching the quaking pounding of his own heart.

Aghased, as though he has just woken up from a dream, Tom blinks and lowers his gaze upon the gemstone: it has changed its colour and turned into a charcoal black, the same shade of Tom’s own eyes. 

It is the most overpowering experience he has ever had: even though nothing has happened to Harry’s gemstone, his own seems to have radiated Harry’s body warmth, his emotions, the ethos of his soul, gripping him until he could hardly breathe. Then, as quickly as it has come, it leaves and the warmth ceases to tingle Tom’s skin, prompting his own magic to soothe.

Quietly, the oldest gently squeezes the locket in his hand as though to collect the last traces of its heat, feeling his own face growing unfamiliarly warm.

It has been more than feeling a piece of Harry in his own hands: it had felt as if Harry himself had been passing his own emotions through the gemstone, tying them together in the intimacy of feeling the same thing at the same moment, unraveling before him, touching him in a way he never could have expected.

_ How the blessing of a touch holds the power to turn a life around. _

“They’re connected,” Tom whispers huskily, his voice barely audible, watching with reverent awe the gemstone as it slowly reassumes its original hoary color. 

He then raises his brows and his eyes track back to Harry. 

The younger boy blows up a shaky breath and his face lights up with a dazzling glee, softening. He nods to the necklace wrapped between Tom’s fingers, cheeks flushed and grin wide. 

“Yes, they are, and it is a very similar connection to the one that binds a wizard’s magic to his wand,” Harry explains before stifling a chuckle and his voice is thick and sweet like sugar. A smile curls on his lips, then, and he loosens the grip around his locket, pushing his glasses further down his nose with his free hand. “If you focus on whatever you feel and you channel it through the gemstone, it will reach mine, too.”

He remembers Ollivander’s words –  _ an initial attraction and then mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand.  _

Tom inhales deeply, closing his own eyes as he focuses on whatever feeling is causing his own heart to thumb lively in his ribs. 

What does he, precisely, have to focus on? Does he need to think of himself, of the heavy weight of his chest? Or does he need to think of Harry? 

And what is Harry for him, anyway: a friend and a companion, a brother and an equal? He is many and very different things. He’s a thorn on his side, making him bleed only to remind him what a burden is to be alive; he’s a shiver to the bone, a voracious flame beseeching for love; but he is also a hint of heaven, a shelter from the tormentous storm in his own soul; a mystery and an obsession, but also a foreign language yet to learn; he is agony, but also beauty; he ricochets between violence and peace; and yet every smile, every caress of his brings him closer to the impossible conclusione they’ve known each other before, in another time, another place, some different existence.

Harry is his, inalterably his, as much as he is Harry’s: to kill him would be to kill himself; to mutilate his soul would be to mutilate Harry’s. 

A muffled gasp makes his own eyes fly open. 

Tom’s sight comes back into focus just in time for him to glimpse at the younger boy’s gemstone as it turns into a rich ruby-red, mirroring the crimson flush on his cheeks. Harry lifts his chin, meeting his own gaze, and Tom has to draw in a sharp breath, bewitched: he is smiling thinly, as though they are trading very exclusive secrets; his emeralds are sparkling effervescently behind his glasses, and the locket in his hands is  _ quivering _ . 

He tries to steady both his breath and features, but it seems he can’t force his body to soothe as something new arises underneath his skin, something akin to hunger: he feels it bubbling in his blood, twinkling in his eyes; it prompts his jaw to clench and his grip around his own locket to tighten, his nostrils to flare.

A thought emerges softly in his forehead, at odds with the brutal nature of it.

_ He would do anything for him, even the impossible. _

_ For him to be safe, he would move the stars and raise a living hell. _

  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  


**_HOGWARTS, OCTOBER 1939._ **

The moon is full and bright enough from Tom to pick his way over the steps of the spiral staircase leading at the top of the Astronomy Tower without a  _ Lumos. _

Harry is standing closer to the ramparts, his hands are resting casually on it, and he’s leaning his head backward as though trying to get a perfect view of the starry sky. His twisted features seem to be drinking gleam from the aster.

He can easily sense the frustration clawing out of him even if the Gryffindor is trying to shove it as far inside himself as he can: he is heaving in deep and stained gasping breaths, his throat is moving restlessly, and his shoulders can’t stop wheezing, so overcome, they can’t get steady. 

Tom stares at him from behind, quietly, before clasping his own hands behind his straightened back as he brings himself to stand by his side.

“What’s troubling you?”

Harry doesn’t startle. His lungs expand and he inhales, blowing out a long breath a moment later, suddenly relieved by the presence of the oldest.

“Tom,” He calls him, tilting his head to the side and glaring at him as a way of greeting. Then Harry’s attention drops briefly to the locket on his own chest before jerking his own gaze back up the sky. “Tell me, do you believe in fate?”

The Slytherin leans over the ramparts to glance at the stars winking in and out of the darkness as clouds sweps past them, and he can’t help but smile, inexplicably tender. 

“I assume you haven’t enjoyed Divination.”

He receives a loud groan as a first answer. Harry’s voice follows right after.

“Not at all,” The boy howls, pouting petulantly before flickering his attention to him once more. Tom doesn’t turn his own head to meet his eyes, and yet can feel his intense stare piercing his own skin as though Harry is trying to peek at something hidden right underneath it. “So, do you?”

Tom hums quietly, running a hand over Harry’s hair and slithers it down his neck, feeling something in the boy’s body breaking, crumpling from the inside.

“I have very little patience with it,” He admits huskily, amusement creeping in the low tone of his own voice. “Fate gives a sense of meaning and survival to those who can’t find any, not within themselves nor by themselves.”

Harry takes a deep breath, his frown looking sceptical, and rubs at his left arm as though to scrape away an annoying sensation burrowing beneath his skin.

“But there are prophecies out there, right?”

Tom inhales silently, thinking headfully about his answer: a few years ago he would have laughed over the possibility that something like a prophecy even existed, thinking it was nothing more than a superstition made to scare off the weak-minded; he has never believed in fate, nor in any religion, even though he has always been fascinated by the way humans craft their values and virtues, their thoughts and morals, out of it – even after discovering his own magical powers and being introduced to the Wizardry World, he has never truly believed in the tales the elders recounted; they were always too unrealistic, desultory. 

Yet all myths are rooted in some kind of truth, in their own peculiar way. 

Tom blinks, the ghost of a smile touching his lips as he crosses his arms upon his chest. He peers quickly at the boy by his side, meeting his scrutinizing stare before speaking. 

“To see into the future is extremely difficult, Harry, and true Seers are such rare creatures,” He explains, voice smooth like silk, pausing for less than a heartbeat to collect himself. He rubs Harry’s scalp, sensing his muscles beginning to unclench, and the words escape his own lips even before Tom has had a chance to think it through. “Even if there are prophecies, there is no way of knowing how accurate and precise they are.”

But Harry’s body grows instantly rigid and immobile and a crucifying torment twists on his face, showing a new rising distress. Tom watches him as the Gryffindor drifts away from the ramparts, strolling so quick to the other side of the tower he almost doubles over, and brings himself to fall with his back against the wall, gulping silently, fighting the urge to shout.

Harry’s body is shaking and Tom’s chest feels suddenly tight. But before he has the time to rush after him, the boy slaps the palms of his hands flat against his own cheeks and groans loudly, washing away his own unease. 

“You know what?” He asks him, shaking his own head vehemently. Then, with no warning and giving no time for the oldest to react, their eyes meet and Harry’s lips curl unexpectedly in a vulnerable and yet fierce smile. Even in the still moonlight, Tom can glimpse Harry’s cheeks inflaming and his own mouth forms a surprised frown, startled by the sudden change in his features, by the graceful way he has mastered his own discomfort as if it has been nothing but nagging dust to wipe off his clothes. “I don’t want to believe in fate.”

A sharp fondness tears at Tom’s heart, prompting him to grin tenderly: he really doesn’t know how Harry can speak so easily about such things, as if everything is for him just a choice to make.

He lets the moon kiss his own shoulders as he whirls until they are facing one another, settling against the ramparts behind him. His focus roves over the boy’s face, his unbelievably delicate expression, the terrifyingly bright light of his irises in the blackness of the tower’s shades. 

“Let’s say there is a prophecy about you. Would you listen to it?”

Harry inhales solemnly and lifts his chin higher up. “Never.”

Tom tries to steady himself but his mind won’t stop racing, his heart won’t stop pounding, because Harry is looking at him as if he can sink underneath his own very core, quietly containing him. 

“How reckless.”

Tom’s stare narrows carefully, his own grin widening, as the Gryffindor doesn’t break eye contact. Harry bites on his bottom-lip and cocks his head, waiting.

“Would you?” He snaps, then, pouting while crossing his legs and clenching his hands around his ankles.

The Slytherin glances down at the locket on Harry’s chest, remembering how, less than an hour ago, the youngest has transferred some of his own discomfort to him through the gemstone as though to summon his presence.

“Of course,” Tom utters, voice suddenly hoarse, before clearing his throat and flickering his attention back into his emeralds. “Knowledge of an upcoming situation does not equal surrender to the probability of it.”

Harry sneers, his lips depart as twist in a light mocking smirk. An unyielding amusement burns brightly in his irises and Tom can almost hear his heart thrumming in his chest, the tense movement in his jaw.

“One day your thirst for greatness will curse us all, Tom.”

Tom arches a brow as a smile slowly tugs at the corners of his mouth. 

“What if there is one about us,” He whispers; his own comes out melodic, almost alluring. “Would you not want to know what might be coming?”

Harry’s face suddenly changes and he startles, breathing faster, but it lasts a moment. He promptly blows out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh and brings his knees to his chest as his arms wrap around them; his expression resembles that of an entranteined kid braiding his thoughts together. 

“Why would I?”

“To prevent it.”

Harry rolls his eyes as if Tom has said something absurd. 

“You can’t control what a prophecy has predicted, can you?” He asks, rhetorically, prompting Tom’s attention to slip to his hands as he begins to gesticulate restlessly. “I mean, you literally have no role deciding what is going to happen to you because it has already been written.”

The Slytherin feels a taunting smile curving his own lips. He closes his eyes for a second as Harry’s magic thrusts through him, merging abruptly and with no restrain with his own, before swiftly flying them open once again. 

“So?” He asks, not even trying to disguise his own interest. “You wouldn’t?”

Harry’s back straightens as a pensive sound runs right out of his mouth and he wipes the corner of his eyes with the back of his hands.

“I don’t know,” He admits, the tiny muscles of his neck straining as he holds the Slytherin’s penetrating gaze, imploring him for an answer. “What if it says something bad like that we’re destined to fight against one another?”

Turmoil surges through Tom’s veins, a feat of emotions haunting him. 

He slowly closes his own hands into fists, clasping them tight behind his back, and grin lavishly as his own nails dig deep into the skin, allowing him to focus on something physical while his feelings dart from one extreme to the next. 

“That’s impossible,” He utters, his voice firmly unwavered. 

He can’t imagine himself fighting him, not in this life nor in the next. Even his own distrust is nothing but a distant memory: he barely remembers how, at first, his body quivered with hate when their gazes locked and Harry’s bright eyes sunk into his own, shaking him down his very core; how much he loathed himself because unable to resist his feral curiosity, his hopeless affection; the days he couldn’t bare the excruciating warmth Harry’s touch brought, the constant oscillation between the desire to flee and the need to get closer.

Looking back now, he knows he has felt something, he has felt it from the very first moment – something he has never experienced before and neither wanted, something that has drained him because he was inexperienced; something he hasn’t known how to handle, something he hasn’t wanted to like because it made him feel so vulnerable as he was a stranger to his own heart.

Tom lowers his gaze upon his chest, where his own locket is kept hidden underneath the robes. He feels his own blood buzzing with magic that isn’t entirely his own, yet he would be a fool to believe his feelings aren’t. 

Then a sense of relief soothes him when his attention falls upon Harry: his chin is resting upon his left knee and a tender smile has curled on his lips. As their eyes meet, a soft chuckle rings out his mouth and a tight knot in Tom’s chest loosens, allowing him to exhale quietly. 

“Well,” The Gryffindor chides, delighted, his tone growing warmer by the second as he watches him carefully. “If it has been written, it has to happen.”

Tom shakes his head, steadily, before giving him a dry look; his mouth forming a frown that grants no contradictions. “It would never.”

Harry opens his mouth, but the Slytherin cuts him off quickly. 

“And if it’s written, we’ll change it and write it all over again.”

Harry’s astonishment lasts only a beat before a bright smile begins to slowly spread across his face. He raises himself from the floor, brushing his cape, and rushes his way across the tower. 

Tom watches his steps, one after the other, and can’t stop an amused grin from twisting his own lips when the Gryffindor strides back over him.

“We can handle whatever comes our way,” Harry pledges, his eyes sparkling with a soothed promise. “With or without a prophecy.” 

They stare at each other in silence, almost as if sealing a deal, before nodding their heads in agreement. 

Tom expects him to pace away, then, but Harry doesn’t move and with a new determination flashing in his irises, he holds his hands out for him to hold.

He raises his own brows, amused, but he doesn’t have the time to seize a hold of the other boy as a chilly wind whips suddenly at the Gryffindor’s hair, prompting his teeth to chatter and his cheeks to flush crimson-red. 

Tom promptly towers over him as if to shield him from the night breeze and watches him as Harry wraps his arms around his own chest, seeking for some comfort; his body grows rigid, unfamiliarly stiffed. 

“Are you cold?” 

“No,” Harry babbles, an icy numbness creeping in his voice. “No, I’m fine.”

The Slytherin straighteners and tips his face up at the moon before slipping his left hand inside his cape, grabbing his wand and waving it in midair. 

“Here,” He whispers, velvety, flashing Harry a mild look as he casts a nonverbal  _ ignem _ . 

There is a slight crackle, then, and seven small bubbles of fire come floating smoothly around the Gryffindor, emanating an intense warmth from their flames. Harry’s mouth flies wide open as he stands, amazed; a breathless, pleased cry rings out his lips and he tilts his head backward to enjoy the heat sinking down his skin, soothing the frost in his bones. 

Tom studies the way the light is gilding the edges of his face, the shadows darkening his gaze without consuming the twinkling emerald of his irises. He places his wand back inside the pocket of his cape and his attention slides to Harry’s chapped lips… _ and he wonders _ … 

He draws in a deep breath and his nostrils flare slightly.

They weren’t made to fit each other and neither did the bond forced them together: they chose to belong with one another – this is what has forged their magic and strengthened their mutual-understanding through the years. 

It is as though they have peeled their souls, separating them into two different halves, and gave one of them to the other; they have chewed and swallowed each of one’s piece in silence, worn it like a second skin, until it has sinked so down nothing of them has been left except the other.

_ What would be the harm, then, to wish for more… he wonders…  _

The Gryffindor’s voice makes him startle.

“You know,” Harry mumbles, lost in his thoughts as well, a small smile played across his face. “If you’d ever become Minister of Magic–”

Tom strains a clear cough, forcing the other wizard to shut his mouth. He raises his own arms and pulls Harry into a tight embrace, rubbing both hands over his shoulders even if the air has already become pleasantly warm. 

“When I’ll become Minister of Magic,” He whispers huskily, correcting him amusingly before pressing the tip of his nose against Harry’s scalp. 

He hears the Gryffindor’s breath as it catches, leaving him momentarily speechless. But in less than a heartbeat, Harry’s arms wrap around his own waist and the boy tilts his head back to stare up at him. 

“Fine,” He agrees while clinging to Tom’s robe. His lips twist in a sly smirk, then, and the oldest curiously arches his own brows as if asking him silently to continue. “When you’ll become Minister of Magic, I’ll want to be an Auror.”

“An Auror?”

Harry nods, pressing his face against the Slytherin’s chest.

Tom’s grip on the younger wizard’s shoulders tighten possessively as he rubs his own chin against his scalp, feeling his mouth opening and closing a few times before Harry decides to speak. 

“My parents were Aurors,” He says, a soft sense of pride making his voice deeper and richer than usual. “And the Minister needs a special group of Aurors or something like that, doesn’t he? People he can trust with his life, people who can pick the most difficult tasks. Like a King with his Knights.”

Tom can’t himself but laugh, his own laughter ricocheting rough and harsh, incredibly authentic, in the walls of the tower. Yet, his heart misses a beat when Harry jerks his own head back to toss him a look that fully expresses his boldness. 

“I’ll become the greatest Auror in the world!”

Tom angels his head down, locking his narrowed eyes with his own. He pays no attention to the flames floating around them, encircling them protectively, because his own gaze shifts down the flush blooming across Harry’s cheeks that has very little to do with the warmth of the floating bubbles of fire. 

“We should begin your training, then…” He trails off, feeling his own expression softening as Harry winces, his eyes widening with expectations and mirth. He loosens his own grip on his shoulders and raises his left hand to tuck a strand of hair behind the Gryffindor’s ear.

Harry bites on his bottom-lip as though to fight the urge to look away, clearly at a loss for words, prompting Tom to hum pensively, curiosity wrinkling his brow.

“Would you follow me?” He asks in a low, almost inaudible whisper, while brushing his own index finger across Harry’s lightning-scar, feeling his goosebumps skittering all over his skin underneath his own touch. 

The younger wizard blinks slowly, completely taken off guard by his own question, and Tom has to command his own heart to placid as Harry takes his time shifting his gaze to Tom’s eyes and lips, not aware, or perhaps very much aware, of the way the older wizard is studying carefully his features, inch by inch, as though skimming every detail only to memorize them all and store them away in the depth of his own mind.

Then Harry nods and his hands slip flat upon Tom’s chest, above his heart.

“I’d follow you everywhere.”

The Slytherin stares at him a moment too long before looking away.

_ Harry would die for love, it is in his nature. He would go, with no hesitation and with no grave holding him down, to the end of both earth and time. _

  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  


**_HOGWARTS, MARCH 1940._ **

For only a second year student, Harry is a natural talent: when casting hexes and jinxes his movements are gawky and imprecise but somehow still vigorous, his face tensed with effort, his body always ready to strike, and when they duel late at night, just the two of them practising new charms and incantations in the Room of Requirements, between a spell and another, there are moments Harry turns utterly still; a stilling of everything but heavy breath, pulse and warm blood, like a deer listening to a hunter’s feet crashing the soil. 

Now standing by his side, Tom drops his gaze on the Gryffindor, glimpsing at the way he is holding his own breath with anticipation, utterly focused, his chest heaving, his joints flimsy and yet ineradicable – he adores watching him getting lost in the heat of his own power with pure and genuine ecstasy.

Harry moves his right hand, fluidly as though it is made of liquid, narrowing his eyes attentively as he points his wand at the dummy in front of them; departing his lips, determined, he casts:  _ “Confringo!” _

A bright-orange jolt of light flies through the air. In a heartbeat, it reaches the humanlike dummy and Tom turns his head to watch it exploding violently, feeling the glow of Harry’s magic ricocheting between the walls of the room. 

“Well done, Harry,” He praises him, unblinking, enjoying the pounderose amount of both mirthfulness and pride slithering through their bond. 

A delighted and yet sly smirk curls a side of the Gryffindor’s mouth. He blows a quivery breath, his heart fluttering madly in his chest, and drops his wand-hand down as he blinks steadily. “Thank you.”

Tom steps back and casts a nonverbal  _ evanesco _ to vanish the dummy, his eyes glittering with sharp fascination when Harry twirls the wand in between his fingers, suddenly silent, losing himself in his own thoughts: he has such a unique way of holding his wand, almost as though it is for him something delicate, something easy to damage or harm and therefore needs to be treated carefully – he holds it like he would hold a very piece of his own soul.

He inhales quietly, somehow managing to hide his own rising interest behind a mild grin, before lacing his hands behind his back too quickly and clutching his own wand for no inexplicable reason. 

“You must keep on practising on your own when I’ll be gone.”

Harry snaps his head in Tom’s direction, his blazing gaze capturing his own, quickly taking his features in, and shoots him a look that quietly suggests he might hex him if they go over such a matter, reminding him how he doesn’t want to talk about Tom’s imminent departure as it is still an open wound as much as it is for Tom himself. 

They haven’t talked properly about it, seeing how much it has paralyzed them both: Tom has never shown interest in leaving after his own graduation, so it has been reasonable for Harry to be as lost and angry as he himself is. 

The youngest has tried to argue with him during the latest winter break and it has been a hell of a vacation. Harry has had wanted to know the reasons why Tom had to leave so suddenly, thinking he was hiding something from him, that he wasn’t telling the truth – which, indeed, he wasn’t, – but it has been the very first time they couldn’t discuss with one another without having Harry bursting into tears and Tom filling himself with so much loathsome hatred he was unable to calm both himself and the younger wizard down. There have been days Harry was so rancorous he has slept in another room, averted his own gazes and didn’t speak to him for what felt like an eternity, and other days Tom was so irritated he has ended up flying objects all around the room with uncontrolled-accidental magic, his blood flaming in his veins because of the palpable and keen tension between him and the other wizard. 

If Sirius and Remus haven’t been there, he genuinely doesn’t know how they would have been able to handle it all. 

_ “I’m telling you, he’s hiding something! I know he is!” _

_ Remus studies him for a long minute before sighing, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Harry, dear, that’s enough. You’re filled with bitterness and not seeing things clearly.” _

_ Harry startles and chokes on his shaky breath, clutching a pillow to his chest as though to shield himself from the accusation. He has never worn a more wary expression, almost mirroring Tom’s own. “You’re wrong, I can very clearly see that he’s hiding something!” _

_ Sirius steps between the two of them, seizing a hold on both Harry’s and Tom’s shoulders; something soothing in his grip makes the two boys startle and sit down on the couch of the drawing room, and his voice, even if shaky, is not demanding. “I want you both to calm down and remember what had brought you here in the first place. You care too deeply about one another to let useless feelings like hate and resentment ruin what you two have.”  _

Tom tosses the memory away, slightly disturbed by it, and sets his jaw. 

The air in the room is so brittle it feels it might snap. 

He doesn’t avert Harry’s gaze and yet sees him as the Gryffindor holds his own breath and his own features stiff, as though a war is being waged inside his mind. During a tense situation, unlike Tom’s face, inscrutable and settled to keep the others from knowing what his real motivations are, Harry’s is always radiant and unveiled, portraying his genuine emotions very strongly, especially when in support of someone or cause. 

The younger wizard opens his mouth, looking as if he wants to say something, but then shuts it closed and shakes his head firmly, perhaps him too washing a memory away. He then lifts his shoulders, deciding to divert the conversation upon something else. 

“Can you teach me one of your spells?”

Tom hums pensively, crossing his arms upon his chest. He taps his left fingers against his bicep and Harry’s eyes follow his movements, travelling from his face to the shape of his body to the wand in his left hand and the skin of his arms, left unshamly exposed by his rolled-up shirtsleeves, and once he finally meets his own charcoal eyes, a bemused smile curls on Tom’s lips and he scrunches his own nose, peering at him briefly before shaking his head. 

“No, not yet.”

Harry blows out a breath. A small hint of a crooked and wry grin ghosts across his lips as he rolls his eyes – his expression taut, yet hopeful. 

“Why not?” He asks in a loud, provocative yelp. He tucks his wand away into his holster and shoots Tom an affronting look, prompting the older wizard to raise his own brows, captivated. “You’re scared I might be better than you?”

Tom’s nostrils flare silently. He strides his way across the room, strutting sinuously like a snake ready to strike, heart hammering in his ribs, and brings himself to tower over the other wizard, their bodies merely inches away.

“You’re  _ imprudent _ , Harry,” He hisses, warningly, as a vicious grin twists a side of his mouth; his voice falsely sweet, his gaze pinning the youngest in place. 

The Gryffindor doesn’t startle nor flinch. He scoffs, amused, before lifting his hands in placation. He raises his chin, then, and pokes him lightly in the chest.

“Oh, mighty Dark Lord, whom all things are set afire,” He prays, his voice overly histrionic, as he wraps own fingers into the other’s, not bothering to hide his delighted grin. Tom narrows his eyes sharply at him the moment his blazing skin touches his own and then cocks his own head to the side, but his own breath catches when their gazes meet – in the dim light of the duelling-room, Harry’s irises have glow brighter, flaming purely with heavenly fire, almost unforgiving. “What shall I do, my Lord, for you to teach me one of your powerful spells? Oh, my Lord, I beg thee, tell me!”

He listens to him, eyes tethered to Harry’s solemn stare, and his light touch pins him in place, unable to move, unable to think. He tries to look away but the Gryffindor’s expression has turned serene, relaxed as Tom hasn’t seen him for quite a while since his own soon to be departure has created a thin layer of tensity that never allows them to be too comfortable with one another. 

Though an unveiled alertness remains in Harry’s posture, prompting him to be ready to strike a  _ jinx  _ in less than a breath, he looks sparky, lively, like the brightest thing Tom has ever seen, and the older wizard finds himself lost in his own fierce longing and he’s not surprised, he doesn’t try to fight it: Harry has always held the power to get under his skin, his mind and soul, to make the world quieter and quieter until the only sound he could have heard was the one of his voice, until he could have seen nothing else but him. 

Ignoring his own growing eager yearning waiting to thaw out, the way his own stomach has tightened in less than a heartbeat, Tom shakes his head and steps away, inhaling deeply, slowly, incapable of stopping himself from swallowing hard, his frown from deepening into a scowl.

He raises his brows, then, and recollects himself quietly. His attention drops on Harry’s chest, rising and falling rapidly, as an enormous amount of sheepish longing slithers through their bond – it is coming from the other boy and he smiles cunningly as he welcomes it in his own blood; a flesh of teeth that seems to put the Gryffindor on the verge of punching him. 

_ He wonders… Salazar, if he wonders…  _

“If this is what you truly desire,” Tom urges, straining a magnetic charm to creep in his own husky voice, and briefly glances down at the younger wizard’s lips before meeting his eyes once more. “Let’s make a bargain.”

Harry’s brows raise abruptly as his attention snaps to him, curiosity entering his features; his blood is pumping more magic through his veins and Tom feels it rumbling in his own, melting with its other half.

“A bargain?”

The Slytherin grits his teeth, watching the younger wizard as he straightens his back and caresses the nape of his neck with his right hand, suddenly cautious and yet still very comfortable. Harry would do anything to get what he wants, rushing in places and things others would normally fear to tread, but he is also very much aware of Tom’s tricks to gain what he himself craves for, too, because like the Devil, Tom has always known how to craft his own deals to make them as tempting as possible, it is always impossible to reject them.

Before answering, the oldest lowers his gaze on some messy strands of hair curling upon the Gryffindor’s forehead, hiding his lightning-scar from the eye.

“Yes, a bargain,” He whispers, low and coaxing.

Harry hums while peering at him and his eyes narrow tightly, seized with a sudden reckless prudence. It is the same expression he wears when duelling: an eager focus like that of a lion ready to pounce. 

“Brilliant. Let’s hear it, then.”

Tom holds up his hands in mock surrender, not stopping an amusing smile from curling on his lips as the younger wizard closes his own eyes, perhaps to count until the urge to hex him has passed.

“I’ll teach you one of my spells, the most powerful I have ever made,” He utters persuasively, voice low and smoky, feeling his own smile growing wicker like that of a wolf who has found a delicious prey and cannot wait to begin its haunt, prompting Harry to take a breath, impatient, and raise a brow as he blinks his eyes open. “Only when you will have your own to show me, too.”

The Gryffindor opens his mouth, then shuts it immediately. He glances quickly at the locket hanging around Tom’s neck, this time kept above his robes, before clashing his penetrating gaze with his own. 

“That’s impossible!” He yelps, his voice tremulous, thick with jitteriness, and shoots him a startled look. “I will  _ never  _ be that good, Tom.”

Tom sneers, but stops a heartbeat later. An emotion very much akin to shame pierces their bond and his own breath catches: he feels it as it subduly settles in Harry, prompting him to curl his hands into fists, nails creating crescent moons in his palms, the muscles of his neck to twitch, his shoulders to grow stiff and rigid, a bile to slowly rise – he hears him holding his rasping breath for a moment too long before swallowing it hard, heavily. 

He purses his own lips, brows drawn together, and takes a measured step closer to the other boy. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he doesn’t hesitate.

“Harry,” He calls him in a soft, gentle voice, bringing the younger wizard to snap his head up, the movements making his scar stand out fiercely. He lingers at his Adam’s apple as Harry swallows again, perhaps to fight the bile searing its way up his throat, before locking their gazes together. “That’s not true, none of it, and you know it. You’ve just mastered a sixth year-level spell.”

Tom raises his hands with the intention of touching him, persuading him to stop pushing himself too hard, but the Gryffindor shrugs away a moment before his fingers could have clenched his slim shoulders. 

“Inventing a spell is very different,” Harry mumbles, his voice wheezy, and jabs a finger toward the oldest. “I’m not like you, I’m not that smart and I can’t understand magic the way you do. If you think I can be that powerful, believe me, you’re wrong. I will never be good enough to craft an incantation, and I will never be good enough for you to–”

But Tom doesn’t give him a chance to continue. He grabs his chin, bringing his rant of nonsense to a halt, and forces him to meet his own unflinching gaze. Harry sucks in a shuddering breath, then another and another more, as if he has been drenched in an ice bath. Time seems to freeze, but the younger wizard doesn’t break his stare as he leans forward, causing Tom’s heart to pound faster, excruciating, as if it could have jumped off his own ribs.

“You stubborn soul,” He chides, barely speaking above a whisper. He brushes Harry’s cheek with his free hand, feeling a warm shudder tearing through him as his own fingertips claim his skin. “You’re my one and only perfect match, not even the gods would whurl you down.”

Harry inhales slowly, breathing through the mouth, and his eyes widen behind his crooked glasses. He gives him a long, thoughtfully look, as though questioning himself whether to believe him or not, and then glances down on Tom’s wrist, startled and speechless. 

Tom watches him as he raises his hands tentatively, clenching his own robes with his tiny fingers to hold himself onto him, before loosening a breath. 

“You’re much stronger than you think you are, Harry,” He says, his voice coming out soft and silvery, as he ruffles his wild hair. His gaze travels over the crimson-flush blooming upon Harry’s cheeks before sinking into his bright emeralds and it feels like coming home, on a wintery night, and finding the fireplace already lighted. “And smarter, too, when you want to be.”

Harry snorts quietly as genuine mirth crawls its way through their bond, prompting the both of them to exhale quietly, finally heartened. Yet, Tom doesn’t let him go and the youngest doesn’t escape from his hold; if anything, he takes a step forward, the tip of their shoes touch and his gaze softeners. 

The Slytherin takes a steadying breath, heart thudding viciously in his ribs.

“So?” Tom asks, in a husky whisper, his voice tenderly alluring, feeling a side of his mouth lifting as Harry winces and gleams at him as if he has just noticed something in a different light for the first time. “Do you accept my bargain?”

His own pulse ticks faster, then, as the younger wizard stands on his tiptoes and frees himself from his own grip. In a heartbeat, Harry cups Tom’s cheeks with his hands and his solemn stare sears into his own. 

“I do. I accept your bargain.”

Tom’s throat dries as a myriad of goosebumps raises on his body. Harry must have felt it, too, because he tilts his hands away from his own face and taps his own chest, cocking his head with curiosity before taking Tom’s hands into his own. As they interlock their fingers, Tom feels his own magic thumming beneath the younger wizard’s touch, responding to his, almost intoxicating him, and the Gryffindor raises his brows, scanning him quietly, his expression filling with a childish astonishment, before smiling tenderly, sheepely. 

“I want to try something…” Harry whispers, voice smooth like velvet, thick like finest wine. The older wizard squeezes his own fingers hard enough to make him flinch, and he chuckles, softly. “Don’t worry, I won’t hex you.”

Tom’s mouth presses into a tight line and before he could have had snort, heat poures off him and envelops them both. He gasps from the unexpected sensation, eyes imploring Harry for a direction when a glittering, feral power flows through his own veins and everything feels so good, so extraordinary, so intense, so  _ damnly excruciating _ . 

The hold on Harry’s fingers tightens, his own eyes shut close and he hears him as he draws in a long breath and slowly releases it, captured, as much as Tom himself is, in a cocoon of the senses. 

“What is this?” Tom asks, his voice quavering, almost panting. 

Harry doesn’t answer, perhaps too focused into whatever he is doing, and he has to fight the urge to skim his skin own off as an outburst of energy streams off him and chills erupt out of nowhere, both terrifying and pleasant. 

Tom takes a few quick breaths, trying helplessly to pull himself together, but his heart throb viciously as emotions and sensations that aren’t his own flow through the magic in his own veins, and he feels overwhelmed. For a moment he wishes he could have bottled everything with a spell and sip from it whenever he most desires to: there is so much kindness, respect and admiration, so much  _ love  _ he thinks he might have drowned in it; there is an immense and genuine trust; a sweet, yearning desire that leaves his mouth feeling dry, making him crave eagerly for more. Yet he can also feel his fear; a fear to be so young and inexperienced compared to him, a fear of not being enough that enlights a desire to become stronger, too; there’s a more dreadful fear, though… a fear of losing him, of watching him vanishing from his life, a fear much much akin to Tom’s… a fear of having his own soul tore apart… 

He jerks his hands away from Harry’s as though having been burned, shivering in place. His nostrils flare and his heartbeat quickens. For a moment, he isn’t sure he remembers how to breathe; then his eyes latch into the other’s and he clears his throat, slowly recollecting himself.

“What have you done?”

Harry winces, his watery gaze alight with stripped emotions; his expression turns unyielding but intense, transparent, as if there isn’t nothing more to hide and yet so much to protect.

“It’s…” He whispers, his voice trails off as he almost chokes on his breath while trying to swallow it. He inhales deeply, then, keeping on holding Tom’s piercing gaze, and raises tentatively his shaking hands, splaying his palms over the older wizard’s chest with a delicacy he has never shown before, more intimate, more daring, more aware. More penetrating. “It’s you.”

Tom’s heart thuds wildly beneath Harry’s touch, sheltered in what seems to be a doomed salvation, and he blows a breath, undone. Harry’s emotions are still vivid underneath his own skin, in his own blood, in his own mind, and the heat of his magic into his own is still simmering in his own veins, devouring him from the inside.

He now understands why humans fall victims of their own hearts: Harry’s feelings have filled and consumed him on equal measure, leaving him to yearn for more and yet to hate how strongly it has felt; still now he wants nothing between them and yet everything and all that there can be, he wants to discover what more he can awaken in him, how far he can push him. 

The Slytherin drags his hands upon the other’s, embracing the back of Harry’s with his own palms. He welcomes his touch, leaning in to it, and interlock their fingers, feeling their magic blending beneath their skins. Silently, as though the slightest intake or exhalation could have given him away, he lets the question he hasn’t the courage to ask out loud to stream through their bond. 

_ Is this what I am to you?  _

Harry stares up at him, unblinking, trying to steady his breath. He bites his lips and frowns deeply, an expression he is used to wearing when trying to come up with the perfect answer; his irises flicker lively, raging like a storm. 

“Yes,” He admits, his voice low and hoarse, before pressing his lips together when the older wizard’s brows fly up. Tom squeezes his fingers tenderly, as though to reassure him, and Harry takes a long breath as his chin inches higher. There’s a warm shift in the atmosphere, like the first rays of the rising sun at dawn, and his voice echo solidly in the room, holding the same strength of his feral, infinite magic. “What you’ve just felt is all I feel whenever I’m with you.”

Tom’s breath catches as a pure, radiant and all-consuming pleasure spreads within him, bewitching him, making him forget who he has been before they have met, making it impossible for him to remember what his life has been like before Harry came into it, and yet making him believe everything is possible, that even hell can weep and the heavens can collapse, that them alone can move the earth and all stars, conquer both life and death,  _ if together…  _

He acts without thinking. He closes his own eyes, heart pumping magic in his own veins, and lets his own emotions free to stream through their bond, tickling and teasing, boisterous like waves crashing on the shore –  _ endless _ .

He hears Harry gasping and senses his unfettered shivers as they rove across his slim shoulders, down his spine, sliding on him like invisible hands; he listens to the enchanting younger’s wizard surprised wails, his panting breath, and enjoys the way his magic melts under his own, with his own, as though they are one and a whole. 

_ If love is the strongest power above all else _

_ Tom finds himself hoping, _

_ dreaming. _

***

He closes his eyes and breathes. And breathes. Harsh, hard, long breaths. In and out, over and over again, he counts them one after the other as they leave his own mouth. 

He has never been this angrier. Not with Dumbledore, nor with himself, and not even with the other kids at the Orphanage. He feels a heinous fury vibrating right through him, in his bones and blood, as if it might break free at any moment; his own vision is gradually getting blurrier and he finds himself almost unable to get through it all.

His head is spinning, nerves knocking into one another, but Tom swallows and pays no attention to the roaring sensation down his throat, hiding himself in the shadows of the Slytherin Common Room. 

“Have you seen how Potter fell off his broom?” A voice asks, amusingly. “It was hilarious… Whoever has tampered with the Bludger, it was brilliant. I wish I’ve thought about it!”

Tom feels his own muscles tensing rigidly, heart in his throat. His knees have begun to buckle. 

“I wouldn’t say such things if I were you,” He recognises Avery’s voice, filled with sharp warning. “You know how much Riddle cares for him.”

_ “Tom Riddle?” _ The voice sneers, malevolent. “As if I should be scared of him.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about…” Someone tries to urge.

“They’ve grown up together, haven’t they?” The voice asks. “In a  _ Muggle  _ Orphanage, too. How disgraceful.”

“Try to say it to his face,” Avery taunts, gravelly. “I bet you lack the guts.”

“It’s not about having the guts but rather simple preservation,” The voice answers abruptly, haughtily. “He’s a freak, don’t you see him? He’s always walking around with such  _ perfect  _ composure, but I bet he’s not half worth the credits he gets… nor is  _ his chosen-one _ . He’s pathetic.”

Tom clings to the walls with his right hand, breathing fast, while his left hand wraps firmly around his own wand, tightening there, prompting his knuckles to whiten. A green spark shoots at the end of it, but he remains silent. 

As he walks towards the fireplace where a group of boys are standing by, staring with a twist of scepticism and cold loath at the young wizard who has spoken first, he meets Avery’s eyes. His housemate’s face lights with sadistic amusement, as though he knows what’s coming.

“Who’s pathetic?” He chuckles quietly, yet prompting his own giggles to meet a sharp end the moment he notices Tom’s dark and gloomy expression. 

“Harry Potter, of course–” The other wizard utters, turning his head to follow Avery’s eyes. And when he does, his face grows pale. 

Tom is standing behind him, towering over the Slytherin with unnatural and demoniac stillness. He doesn’t know what is happening to him, he doesn’t even seem able to restrain himself: he can’t shake this anger, this deadly ire that is causing his own charcoal eyes to glow with a lethal blaze.

“Your name,” He demands, slowly; his own voice dangerously low, almost lifeless.

There’s a heavy pause. Tom fights an evil and twisted smile and fails.

“I… I wasn’t…” The Slytherin mumbles, gasping for air, growing sick and scared by the second. He is breathing hard, now, as if struggling to stay calm. 

But Tom doesn’t care –  _ he’d rather watch him die.  _

“Your name.”

The wizard can’t tear himself away from Tom’s own bloodthirsty gaze as his mouth opens wide with terror and his voice, his panicked and raucous voice, echoes weakly in the common room. “Marcus… Marcus Flint.”

“Marcus Flint,” Tom repeats, coldly. His own body jerks forward, then, prompting the other Slytherin to fall clumsily on the solid ground the moment he has tried to withdraw away from him. 

Mocking laughter rises all around them and Tom peers down at him, feeling his own face contracting and twisting with grim disgust. 

“Are you hurt, Flint?” He whispers, grinning with glacial amusement, and it doesn’t sound much of a question, rather as something akin to a veiled, menacing threat. “Stand up,” He demands, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Marcus gasps like a fish out of water. He brings himself to stand, slowly and discoordinated, quivering with uneasiness and shame all at once. 

Tom stares at him for a moment, wishing more than ever that he could have used an unforgivable without getting himself in troubles, watching and enjoying and laughing at the way the _Cruciatus curse_ would slither through his body, from head to toes, making him writhe in pain by his own hands until nothing would be left of him but crashed bones.

Instead, he raises elegantly a hand to adjust briefly the folds on Marcus’s tie, only to then tilt it away as though he has touched a leper.

His nose wrinkle with abhorrence.

“Don’t you speak of him ever again. Understood?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, leaving Flint and his silent weeping. 

_ But little they all know that, a few days later, Marcus Flint has been found seriously wounded, bleeding and confused out in the cold rain, looking as though he has faced Death and survived because She had been merciful.  _

_ His face has been scarred and he hasn’t remembered what had happened to him, how he got there in the first place. He hasn’t even remembered who he was. _

***

Slowly, not loosening the tightly clenched grip on his wand, Tom lowers his charcoal gaze on his own fingers: they’re shaking with an eerie anger.

And as a devilish smirk twists his pressed lips, he doesn’t try to restrain it. 

“I’ll ask once more,” He whispers coldly, voice smooth but filled with obnoxious hate, while his eyes, flaming with a sinister flame, narrow menacingly; a burning rage yet to explode. “Have you tampered with the Bludger, Crabble?”

Scooched on the floor of the Room of Requirements, Vincent Crabbe quivers with pain. Tom peers down at him, almost demonically: he peers down at his sick pallor and his watery eyes, his sputtering lips, the drops of cold sweat on his forehead, dipping and merging with the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

“I… I swear, I… I have not…”

His own jaw clenches so rigidly the teeth crack.

“Then,” He utters, as thick as broken ice, feeling every muscle in his own body tensing as he leans in, nerves shot. A bright spark of red light shoots at the end of his own wand but Tom’s grip on it remains firm as he almost sputters the poisonous words out of his mouth. “I’ll make you tell me who did it.”

Crabbe’s eyes burst wide open, filled with heavy tears, and so does his mouth, perhaps on the verge to cry an imploration. But Tom doesn’t allow it.

_ “Crucio.” _

_ And the anger has been dragged out of him like that of a man when the Gods steal away his beloved’s life. _

  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  


**_CORNWALL, SUMMER 1940._ **

Compared with all summers they have spent together, their summer in Cornwall has been different. 

They spent the very first days doing nothing but being each other’s company: sometimes they’ve gone swimming, other times they’ve tried to make up new spells and charms together, different rules for their duels, and other times again they’ve simply had laid on the warm flowerful field, their shoulders and legs and hips touching while staring at each other with unblinking eyes and smiles so bright their faces have gone sore and numb and they could no longer have guessed when one began and the other ended. 

When their legs intertwined under the bedsheets at night and their bare feet and toes brushed against each other’s, or their hands and fingers caressed one another’s while making dinner, or talked about Tom’s future travels, they had found themselves closer to one another in a more intimate way, comfortable with one another’s body in a way they’ve never been before. 

Yet, each time, another feeling as well had spread throughout Tom. An excruciating feeling akin to fear, to the cold touch of Winter: it filled him, causing his own heart to ache as though a boa constrictor was coiling tightly around his chest, making it impossible for him to breathe. When Harry was asleep, he found himself grinning and clenching his own jaw until his muscles hurt; when Harry wasn’t looking at him, he found himself closing his own hands into fists and digging his nails so deep in his flesh he thought he might bleed out; when Harry was in another room, he found himself inhaling desperately to fill his own aching lungs with air, his head spinning, the blood piercing his veins. 

Questions, so many questions, too many, rose in his mind. 

How could solitude be necessary for their magic? How could a period of separation from one another be the thing they both most needed? How could he leave him when his own body, his own blood, his own soul ache to be with him, to engulf him, to carve his own name into his heart? 

Dumbledore told him he had to leave, he made it very much clear he had to: he said it was good to be solitary, to grow out of one another for their magic to restore some inner balance instead of co-existing. 

_ How could they have had coexisting?  _

To be more precise, Harry’s magic was co-existing with his own: it wasn’t evolving, it was simply accommodating him, like the embrace of a child afraid to walk his own steps alone – that’s why it was necessary for him to leave, Dumbledore said, or it would have ended in a catastrophe. 

But the complicated aspect of things that are necessary is that they might also be the most difficult to accomplish because most of the times they are not wanted, not wished for, sometimes they are even neglected, repulsed. 

_ If you care for him, Tom, you’ll come to make the right decision. _

“Forgive me. I wish I could care for you my own way,” He whispered to Harry, one night, when the youngest was already deep asleep in the embrace of his own arms. “But right now I don’t know how to without hurting you, too.”

  
  


***

The air scatters as Tom’s left hand slices a long, thin line. A jolt of red light bursts from the end of his wand and aims toward Harry: it has been meant to strike him, and it would have had, if only he hadn’t had jerked back so swiftly. 

A sudden and searing range of hexes fly back fiercely toward Tom, one straight after the other, but Tom is quick enough to cast a  _ non-verbal Protego _ , protecting himself and yet allowing the assault to continue. 

He chuckles amusingly, then, as the younger wizard’s exhausted and frustrated groans reach his own ears, and shoots him a calm and composed look, as if meant to taunt him, asking, _ this is it? _

“Laugh all you want, you arshole!” Harry yells, his wrath and enervation so strong Tom could have gotten drunk with the intensity of it. “I’ll tear it down!”

The oldest glances in time to see him close his green eyes, as though to channel what little remains of his patience and strength, when a feral bluish-white bolt shoots against his own shield, radiating a vast and raw brute force, smashing it like glass, making him almost fall backward. 

Impressed, feelings his own heart throbbing lively in his ribs, Tom stops a moment to catch his breath and regroup. 

Harry’s mouth twists in a lecherous grin and a drop of blood slips down his chin, dripping to his shirt – it is coming from the cut on his lips Tom’s previous spell has made when it has shoved the youngest to the ground – but, without breaking his own concentration, his wand still pointed menacingly against him, the Gryffindor wipes it off with the back of his free hand while biting on his own bottom-lip to suck up the yet dripping blood.

It has always been stimulating for Tom to have a proper foe, a rival and equal, as much as it has been for Harry: they would both bleed themselves dry if it meant to win against the other.

Before last night, duelling with him was his favorite thing. 

But once he has discovered the adorable little moans Harry could make against his own lips as he softly and yet demandingly tasted him, the way his fingers have clenched on his own hair whenever their kiss deepened, his eyes turning watery and his features pleading while being pressed underneath him, hands exploring each other’s backs, their bare legs, he…

He startles, breathing hard.

_ “Bombarda Maxima!” _

Tom staggs elegantly away just in time for the exploding charm to burst upon the rose bush behind him, demolishing it. His own lips twist in a crooked grin that mirrors Harry’s amusement – the youngest has had casted the spell so swiftly, he hadn’t seen it coming.

His bright voice rings from the other side of the backyard.

“Got something on your mind, Tom?” Harry roars, a mocking delight creeping in his tone as though he knows what the other wizard has been thinking about. His eyes sparkle before he’s casting an unharmful  _ jinx  _ in Tom’s direction, but it gets diverted easily by the older wizard. “You look rather distracted today.”

Without lowering his own wand, Tom tilts his head to an angle and his charcoal eyes scan the younger wizard from head to toe: he lets his own gaze travels downward, slowly taking in Harry’s silhouette and making sure the youngest watches him as he does, and asses him properly, teasingly, from the tips of his ruffled hair to the base of his bare feet. 

A sly smile curls on his own lips, then, when the Gryffindor blows out a taut laugh and his face flushes with heat. He quickly raises his eyes and their gazes meet and a delicious jolt slithers down Tom’s spine, spreading through his entire body, at the connection: Harry’s irises hold the strength of a violent wind, there is something hidden in the depths of them, something exciting, inebriating – something he finds himself thirsted for.

Tom raises his brows as a pinch of hunger lurks at the edges of his lips and Harry, in front of him, goes so still one would think he’d been turned to stone.

“You’re right,” He utters, silkily; his own voice low and deep, yet powerful enough for the youngest to hear. “I can’t stop thinking about last night.”

Harry’s breath catches loudly and his eyes widen behind his glasses, his chest rising and falling rapidly, led by the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat. Clearly astounded, he lowers his hand wand and bites his lips as though to fight a smile, trying to remember himself – but before he has to scramble for an answer, Tom gives his own wand a quick upward flick and shoots a  _ nonverbal Levicorpus _ , hoisting the younger wizard by his ankles in midair.

“Tom!” He cries out in surprise, dangling upside down, and jerks his body wildly, trying to free himself. A raging groan rings off his lips, then, when he realises that his own wand has fallen on the ground beneath his own head and Tom’s grin grows wider, wicked, the moment he shoots him an amused look and a crimson red, a twist of both anger and sheepinness, blooms all over the Gryffindor’s face. “You traitor, put me down! Now!”

Harry’s eyes burrow into his own and he can’t help but lose the sense of both time and place, feeling nothing but the soil beneath his own feet as he strolls leisurely toward him, ignoring his threatening grunts.

Tom stoops down to collect the younger wizard’s wand, smiling delighted when it quivers merrily in his own hand like a lover, before poking him with the tip of it in the ribs, prompting him to clench his teeth and tighten his jaw. 

“Tom!” Harry barks, an infuriating half-smile curled on his lips, panting heavily, out of breath. He jerks his arms upward to seize a hold on Tom’s clothes, but the older wizard averts the motion with a simple, elegant and composed step to the side. “I swear to every fucking god in every fucking heaven, I’m going to break your face if you don’t put me down right fucking n–”

Tom pokes him in the ribs once more, as though to chide him silently for his swearing, and Harry coughs violently; a desire of bloody revenge burning bright in the swirls of his emerald eyes.

“How rude, Harry,” He mocks him in a silvery whisper, a clear and yet deep sound, before tilting the tip of the wand down, from his ribs to his chest, in the imitation of a caress. The younger wizard’s body grows suddenly rigid, then, when Tom crouches and brings his own face in front of the other’s like a snake winding through a bed of wildflowers; their breaths merge together into one and their gazes lock. “Sirius is having a bad influence on you.”

When Harry’s nostrils flare and his face heats up, Tom’s own attention drops languidly on the bleeding-cut on his lips. His elation rushes greedly through him as the younger wizard follows Tom’s stare, blushing deeply but not looking away, before trying to seize a hold on him once more.

This time Tom doesn’t avert his arms: instead, he grabs Harry’s wrists with both hands and clenches his own fingers firmly around them, making the youngest hiss dangerously against his own forehead as he jerks his head up in the attempt of hitting him. 

But he fails and Harry’s eyes narrow when their gazes crash together.

“Put me down,” He utters, each word filled with deadly venom, before trying to yank his own wrists free; but Tom’s grip on them tightens even more, making it impossible for him to escape, and he growls, frustrated.  _ “Now!” _

“Only if you ask nicely.”

“You presumptuous assho–”

“I’ve said  _ nicely _ , Harry.”

Harry sucks in a breath, swallowing it hard, with the hope to collect what little has left of his patience. His features shift into a feigned plead and a mocking grin crooks his lips, causing a few drops of blood to drip on the soil. 

“I beg thee,  _ dearest _ ,” He whispers, voice falsely honeyed, and lifts a brow as the corners of Tom’s mouth turn up. “Would you please put me down?”

While Tom’s own eyes laugh lively, his lips twist in a sly smirk. 

“Since you’ve asked...” He chants amusingly before standing elegantly, arching his own neck as though to prove his victory, and snaps the fingers of his right hand to release the jinx, holding gently Harry’s wand with the other. 

In a heartbeat, the younger wizard slumps down and his back hits the ground and a grunt of pain rings off his lips at the impact. Breathless, then, he embraces his stomach with his sore arms and coughs loudly. 

Tom watches him slowly recollecting himself, chuckling amusingly as Harry heaves an aching sigh of relief before propping up his elbows; his bewitching emerald eyes shining with fierce and fresh content even after a defeat. 

“It was devious of you to use last night against me,” Harry pants, inhaling deeply in the attempt of steadying his breath. As Tom glances down at him, he nods with his own chin at the wand in the older wizard’s left hand before shooting him a daring look, and a bold grin twists lightly his lips, making him look so hypnotizing, so irresistibly seductive. “You’ve hurt my feelings.”

Tom hums, calm and composed, without breaking eye contact with him, and his own stare softens of its own accord, making Harry frown slightly. 

“Is there a way to gain your forgiveness,” He asks huskily before readily tacking on, charmingly. “Dearest?”

Harry tilts his head to the side and raises a hand to hide his mirthful laughter, but a low hiss rings off his lips as one of his fingertips brushes accidentally against the open cut. His frown deepens and he wrinkles the tip of his nose before twisting his features in a silent, pleading expression.

As though Tom has read his mind, he points Harry’s wand toward him and utters a firm  _ “episkey” _ , watching his shoulders slump with relief and the slit on his lips heal quickly. He then casts a  _ nonverbal cleaning spell _ to wash away the blood on both his face and shirt before crossing his own arms upon his own chest, waiting for him to stand. 

But Harry doesn’t – he brightens instantly and his eyes shine so lively Tom can almost hear his heart beating so loudly – instead, he puffs his cheeks and mimics an offended mien.

“Thank you,” He blows out before tilting his head backward, exposing the soft skin of his neck. He bends his legs and spreads them open as he raises both of his brows, shooting him a dangerous and dashing look all at once that makes Tom’s eyes narrow greedly, his own blood flowing faster and his own heart thumping hungrily. “But I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for how you’ve lied to me, so easily too, only to distract me from–”

“I wasn’t lying,” Tom cuts him off, quirking a brow; his own voice firm and solemn as his Slytherin’s pride gets the best of him. “Yes, I’ve distracted you. But I haven’t lied.”

Harry winces and his breath catches. And as he cocks his head to stare up at him in a new light, Tom can’t stifle a smile, genuinely amused by how his own confession has shutted him up.

Quietly, not deign to drift his own attention away from him, Tom watches attentively as Harry hoists himself from the ground and sits casually, crossing his legs at his ankles: a soft-scarlet red flushes over his cheeks, heating him up as though his mind is going over all things that have happened last night, every daring touch and warm caress, how Tom has kissed him like a pilgrim who has found some water in the desert, the way their hands have roamed over each other’s body as if they wanted for their skins to remember each other’s even in another life.

It takes Harry a few moments before meeting his own penetrating charcoal gaze, but when he finally does, the youngest has to rub his hands over his knees, perhaps to shake off the sudden shivers.

“What about it?”

“What can’t I stop thinking about?”

Harry nods slowly, lightly. A sparkle of hope burns vivid in the feral green of his irises and Tom can’t help but to lick his own lips at the memory of Harry’s against them.

“How good you’ve tasted.”

Harry’s mouth drops open as his brows fly underneath the hair curled on his forehead, face painted with a bright red Tom has never seen on him before. 

He let himself imagine what could have happened if Harry was old enough, if they both would have dared to explore one another more deeply, to crave for more skin, to kiss more desperately. 

“It has been the best night of my life,” Harry whispers, his voice like a drop of gold, cutting into the thought of his legs splayed open for him, of him peering down at his naked body, admiring everything that belongs to him and him only.

Tom clears his throat silently, allowing a moment to recollect himself and peer down at the younger wizard before kneeling on his left kneel in front of him, propping the forearm of his wand-arm upon his thigh as he raises his free hand to take Harry’s, interlacing their fingers together.

“It has been mine, too,” He confides in a low, hoarse whisper, before leaving a loving kiss on Harry’s knuckles, not breaking eye contact with him; the scent of his sweat and honey filling his own nostrils when he leans closer. “I wish for all of our nights together to be as beautiful.”

Harry gulps, swallowing a shaking breath, and squeezes their fingers tightly together. The flush on his cheeks grows uncontrollably deeper, spreading slowly down his neck, but his green eyes stare at him daringly, prompting Tom’s teeth to flash in the widest grin, finding himself fascinated and proud all at once for Harry’s sheepish reaction. 

Suddenly, then, the youngest tilts his hand away and yanks the collar of Tom’s shirt, bringing him at the edge of losing his own balance. 

“But don’t you use a  _ Levicorpus  _ on me ever again,” Harry warns him; voice rough and yet surprisingly soft. A warm, heady jolt runs down the full lenght of Tom’s spine, his own brows arching lightly, when Harry lifts the corner of his mouth and shoots him a fond menace. “If you wish to keep on living as well.”

Tom’s gaze narrows gently, studying him, noticing the hint of expectation on his lips as his smile spreads widely on his face, a trace of curious hunger sparkling in his irises as his attention drops on his own lips. 

“I promise,” The ex-Slytherin utters, voice firm and solid, before caressing softly the back of Harry’s hands with his own fingertips as though to persuade him, to prove his own candid honesty. 

Harry bites on his lower lips, chewing slowly on its inside, and tilts his hands away from Tom’s shirt, freeing him from his own tight grip. He cocks his head, then, and hugs his knees when Tom hoists himself and straightens his own back, his own fingers twitching; an action that betrays his own desire to lean forward, to claim Harry’s lips once more and seal them in an unholy kiss.

He would love to. He would very much love to kiss him again, to kiss him so hard and make him forget what day it is, make him beg for more, leaving him with nothing but the weight of their mouth upon one another, the warm embrace of their limbs band together like pieces of puzzles.

Yet, in the time it takes Harry to blink at him, looking as if he has been waiting for him to make a move, a knot in his own throat suddenly tightens and Tom brings his arms behind his back and closes his hands into fists, holding Harry’s wand in a death and desperate grip – they have four days left before returning back to London, barely six before his own departure. 

_ He feels sick just at the thought of it. _

Tom’s muscles spasm within his body and his nostrils flare silently but he clenches his jaw and bites his tongue as he swallows a heavy breath, not wanting the younger wizard to notice his own growing discomfort. 

He rotates and takes a few strolls away from him, heart racing, before he could have given his own agitation away.

“Are you tired?” He asks hoarsely, holding his growing tension in check. 

Harry, having stood up as soon as Tom has walked away, as though unable to bear the distance separating them, narrows his eyes and shakes his head firmly, prompting the oldest to shoot an inquisitive look at him, brow raised. 

As they find themselves standing mere feet apart, he hums deeply.

“Then allow me to teach you some fire-bending spells.”

Harry opens his mouth but shuts it closer a second later and steady his breath, eyes wide and sparkling behind his glasses, as if wondering whether to ask him something. Yet, as their gazes meet and lock fondly, he swallows down his hesitancy and his lips depart quickly. 

“Why fire? Why not–I don’t know–water?”

Delicate jolts caresses Tom’s spine like warm fingers when Harry runs a hand through his ruffled hair, further dishelving it, and the tension falls from his own shoulders the moment his green eyes trail down the full length of him.

“Oh, Harry,” He chides, lightly, before holding out his wand for him to take back. The younger wizard steps closer with no hesitation and grabs it gently, and a smile curls on his lips as his wand quivers tenderly in his fingers. But before he can even think about drifting away, Tom tilts his own now-free hand to collect a few strands drooping to his ears, twirling them between his own fingers, not helping but to grin amusingly as Harry’s breath catches quietly. 

“Fire is the perfect element for you. It symbolizes passion, courage, willpower,” He whispers again, voice growing smokier and deeper with each word, making Harry hold his own breath while looking up at him half-puzzled, half-bewitched. “It’s a purifier, a destroyer and a generator of life, of energy and change. A destruction and salvation all at once.” 

Harry’s eyes burn brighter and he holds absolutely still, as if scared to break the delicacy of such a moment. He leans unconsciously closer and Tom, calmly, tucks a lock of hair behind his left ear, slowly, giving the other wizard the time to study him in one gestalten flicker as he does, drinking in his own neck, his own cheeks, the sweat on the skin around the area surrounding his charcoal eyes. 

With his left hand, then, Tom grabs Harry’s chin and for a heartbeat, a plea pulses through his own fingers. Then he has himself under control.

“The incantation is  _ Ignem _ .”

  
  


***

Under an oak tree, the branches providing a lovely shade from the bright sunlight, sitting with his legs spread open and his elbows propped on his knees, arms resting flat in front of him and hands clasped together, Tom watches Harry diving in the water one last time before deciding to backstroke his way toward the rocks of the waterfall’s basin. 

He quickly scans the area to make sure there is no one else around before landing his eyes on him once more, finding that Harry is already walking toward him while ruffling his wet hair with his right hand; his eyes gleam lively and the sun falls on his golden skin like the fond kiss of a mother.

His body is growing older: even though his limbs are still slender and delicate, Tom can already glimpse at Harry’s juvenile muscles rising and falling beneath his flesh as he moves; his face, too, is turning firmer and his shoulders are starting to slightly broaden. Water is dripping down the curve of Harry’s neck and Tom’s attention falls upon a single drop caressing his body in a way he himself has grown used to doing during their latest nights together. With his own eager eyes, he follows its path down his chest, further down the soft skin of belly, and watches it disappear as it meets his swimsuit. 

_ Salazar _ , if he loves the way it makes him burn. Perhaps Harry is right: love is the only power in the world that can both destroy and revive – he can see it clearly now, against all the odds, when he is about to leave the most precious thing he has ever held in his own hands.

Tom has wrapped himself up in the idea of becoming Harry’s shield, in the idea of protecting him at any living cost, he has failed to notice how much of his own magic he can no longer claim as his but as  _ theirs _ , how much of himself he has killed and yet awoke in the arms of the other. He has burned so many times and keeps on burning many times more, and yet there is so much he can do with his own bruises, so much he can raise from his own ashes; it is as though, if he wouldn’t have burned in the first place, he couldn’t have found what was once lost. Harry has always been all he needed and more, like the light of a flickering candle flame, too faint to illuminate the path ahead, and yet strong enough for making something of him, to guide him when Tom himself has felt nothing but blind, lost in the aridity of his own soul, the famine of his own heart. Perhaps that is why his own feelings for him have always been too intense, too strong, he has let them overflow and now there isn’t a single part of him that doesn’t belong to the other. It is as if, in the moment one’s life would come to an end, the other too would cease to exist, too. 

He blinks and shifts his own gaze – mouth sunnely, fingertips burning with an excruciating longing, – meeting the youngest’s puzzled stare, but when his eyes lock on to his own, a bright grin flickers a corner of his mouth. 

Then, in a heartbeat, Harry rushes his last steps into a run and before Tom can even blink he finds his arms wrapped around his own neck, his body pitching forward. Harry’s wild and mirthful laughter echoes in his own ears the moment they both fall backward and Tom’s back quickly hits the soil beneath them. 

Warm jolts run down his own spine and he finds himself unable to inhibit them, he might as well have forgotten his own name.

“You restless soul,” Tom hisses, prompting Harry’s laughter to grow richer, thick and sweet like the scent of their limbs entangled together.

As an answer, Harry tackles him in an embrace so fierce he almost cuts off his circulation and brings his left cheek to rest on the right side of Tom’s chest.

The oldest lays his own head on the grass beneath and wraps gently his own arms around the younger wizard’s naked waist, holding him tightly while allowing Harry to bring his fingers upon his own collarbone, caressing the full lenght of it with a warm touch, drifting the fingertips upward to the soft bulb of his own throat – he tries to swallow his scent, the smell of the sun and water combined together, and Harry’s fingertips ride against the motion.

“I was thinking about something,” Harry asks, his voice nothing more than a coaxy whisper, lips resting a hairbreadth from his nipple.

Tom’s breath catches lightly and his stomach trembles, heart hammering madly faster, when a warm drop of pleasure spreads beneath his own flesh, thick like a dribble of oil in water. He hears the other chuckling softly, perhaps amused by the sudden change of his own heartbeat, and he can’t help but to crack a smile, clinging to him, so stunned, so devoted. 

“What is it?”

As Harry flicks his fingers towards Tom’s left shoulder, tightening there, the oldest sprawls beneath him, keeping one arm wrapped around his waist while raising the other, bringing the fingers of his own left hand to play with Harry’s wet hair, nails rubbing lovingly on his scalp. 

He knows him blindly – and since he surely doesn’t need to look at him to know where to touch him,  _ how  _ to touch him to bring him pleasure, he shuts his own eyes close, enjoying their bodies drying up with each other’s warmth. 

“Do you remember when you’ve read the Iliad to me, Tom?”

He can feel Harry’s smile on him as he leaves a kiss upon his own bare collarbone, thrilling his own skin. Unsatisfied, then, Harry lets his fingers free to roam leisurely all over his own body, down Tom’s belly, the lithe of his hips, drifting upward the full lenght of his right side, only to find a home in the hollow of his neck, right underneath his right ear – Harry knows the power he holds over him, he knows it too well, and Tom can’t smother a low, satisfied moan. 

An aged memory flies up the surface of his consciousness when Harry’s lips crash gently against his own jawline, the tip of his nose brushing lightly upon his own cheekbone, and he finds himself back to their days at the Orphanage. 

_ A lonely torch sends a flicker of light about their room. _

_ “Come, friend, you too must die. Why moan about it so? Even Patroclus died, a far, far better man than you,” He reads, staring at the words for far too long before realizing Harry is looking at him, puzzled. Quietly, then, he points his left index on the page, to keep a track on where he has stopped, and raises his head, peering at the kid sitting in front of him. _

_ Harry’s face scrunches up into a confused frown, his features lighted with pain and joy all at once. “I don’t understand.” _

_ “What don’t you understand?” _

_ “Lycaon pleads for his life,” He huffs, loudly, as he hugs his legs and propps his chin on his knees. “Achilles has spared him before, so what changed? Why does he rebuke him now?” _

_ Tom tilts his head slightly back to look him in the eye. _

_ “Because he isn’t the same man he once was. The war changed him.” _

_ A meditative silence weights upon them. Harry’s nose wrinkles as he runs his fingers through his ruffled hair in a pensive swipe.  _

_ “I don’t think it is the war that changed him, ” He whispers, looking like someone who’s trying to find an answer for an impossible question, and his frown grows into a deeper scowl. “I think it was Patroclus’s death.” _

Tom feels his jaw as it clenches the moment Harry brushes his fingertips upon his own lips, caressing voluptuously their edges. 

“Very well,” He utters, slowly and deep, curling a strand of Harry’s hair around his own index finger. With the thumb of his own free hand, not loosening the grip on him, he fondles his lower back, not stopping his own lips from twisting in a delighted grin when Harry lets out a soft wail, pleased. “Why do you ask?”

A breathy laugh escapes Harry’s lips that breaks against Tom’s neck as the Gryffindor comes to sit on his lap with his own knees propping on the grass around the sides of his waist, forcing Tom to blink his eyes open.

“The two Greek soldiers, Achilles and Patroclus,” Harry asks calmly before crooking down his own shoulders as he leans in. With no hesitation, he cups Tom’s cheeks with the palms of his hands, thumbs brushing against the shaped bones below his charcoal eyes, and his voice meets Tom’s own lips softly like the rays of the early-morning rising sun. “Who do you think they’ve been to one another?”

Tom fingers Harry’s hips with a grip as solid as stone when the leaves of the oak tree sways in the summer breeze, the sunshine coming to find a shelter on Harry’s shoulders like powdered gold – he looks ravishing, a godly living flame arching above him, his green irises sparkling with a pure radiance mighty enough to make Tom’s heart quaver. 

He clears his throat quietly, alluring Harry’s full attention.

“Achilles regarded Patroclus as his  _ philtatos _ ,” He says, voice growing deeper with each word, coming from somewhere around the back of his own thirsty throat. He cocks his head and meets Harry’s curious gaze before rushing himself to explain, brushing his own thumbs’ fingertips upon his hip-bones, upward and then downward, slowly; a dainty and yet unmistakably intimate caress. “It means most beloved.”

Harry nods lightly, digesting the words for a moment. Then his attention drops on his own lips and Tom can feel his tongue sticking against the roof of his mouth. 

“Were they lovers?” The younger wizard asks and his voice rumbles through the air, as if descending from heaven, prompting Tom to bite on his own lower-lip.

Unable to cool the growing heat coiling inside his own limbs, feeling his own heart missing a beat as Harry’s gaze narrows softly, starvedly, upon his own lips, his green eyes dawning on him like melting honey, Tom heaves slightly.

“What makes you think so?”

A brief silence grows around them and Harry hums pensively, lost in the ocean of his thoughts. Tom has never felt this close to him before, exposed in a way that has nothing to do with their almost-naked bodies tangled together.

Slowly, then, the younger wizard drifts down and plants himself upon his own body, his behind pressing lightly upon his own lower belly, and a muffled sigh escapes Tom’s lips before he could have pressed them tightly together. 

“Achilles requested his ashes to be mixed with Patroclus’s so that they could be together for eternity,” Harry urges, the voice coming out of him is a mere quiet whisper. He then props his elbows and arms in the grass, around the sides of Tom’s head, and brings his hands upon Tom’s hair, running his fingers through the ebony strands in a languide swipe. “He even refused to burn Patroclus’s body, keeping his corpse with him instead. It’s–” He inhales deeply as his breath catches, but his focus remains fixed on him, and Tom’s hands on his hips squeeze him slightly. As if taking his time to search for the perfect words, Harry slowly locks a tuck of strands behind Tom’s ear and he gulps silently, drinking in Harry’s voice like a vital force. “It’s such a desperate reaction from him, isn’t it?”

Straining his own left hand to tilt away from Harry’s hip, Tom brushes the younger wizard’s wet hair out of his face before seeking his liquid gaze and a wave of faint pleasure slither through their bond when his own fingers reach the ruffled strands coiled at the nape of Harry’s neck, washing over them, prompting an amiable moan to escape from Harry’s lips.

A profane grin flickers the corners of his own mouth. 

“Many Greek and Roman philosophers have portrayed them as lovers, it was a common and accepted interpretation in the ancient world,” Tom says silkily, narrowing his eyes as Harry’s expression turns incredulous. 

To further surprise him, then, he seizes a solid hold on his hips before hoisting himself from the grass, forcing the younger wizard to startle quietly and his body to sway back, following Tom’s motion. Harry drifts his hands away from his own cheeks, only for them to find a home on his own bare shoulder-blades as he embraces him dearly, and folds and turns his legs toward Tom to tangle them around his waist before allowing himself to fall on his thighs.

Tom hums approvingly and a fire flames in Harry’s face, his cheeks as red as rubins, and as their eyes lock, warm jolts sizzle between their bodies.

“How horrible it must be,” Harry whispers, holding his breath for a heartbeat before continuing while skimming lightly the skin upon Tom’s chest with his nails, making every bone in Tom’s own body ache. “To be doomed by fate to be stuck in a love that has no place on the battlefield?”

The older wizard leans in and rests his forehead upon Harry’s. He brings his own hands to roam all over his body, caressing the dip of his waist, trailing with his own fingertips the path of the small freckles above his hips, descending to his lower back.

“How horrible it must be,” Tom asks back, not bothering to strain himself to not thrust slightly against him, while rubbing his own thumbs along Harry’s inner thighs, smiling warmly when Harry purrs deeply against his own lips. “To be doomed from the start to be torn apart from your lover?”

Harry’s body quivers under his own touch, within his own arms, his legs tightening steadily around his own hips as though Tom can vanish any given moment, and Tom cocks his head, shooting him an inquisitive look.

“Do you want to ask me something, Harry?”

The youngest blinks and a faint smile slowly curls his lips, genuinely pleased to find that Tom knows the way his own mind works, the way his own body moves along his own thoughts – he knows him so well, too well.

They hold each other’s eyes, stripping their emotions naked, helpless but to feel their souls as they touch unashamedly.

“Will you come back to me?”

Tom’s fingers twitch when Harry’s voice crashes against his own lips and his hands come to rest on the hollow of his neck, sending warm quivers through his own skin. 

“Harry,” He call, breathless, the words clipped like the silver gleam of a blade, feeling his own stomach fluttering when Harry raises his brows, shooting him a hopeful look. A lock of wet hair sweeps over his brow and Tom, swallowing past a sudden lump in his own throat, reaches forward and raises a hand to smooth it back, peering down at him as though he is the only living thing in the world. “No matter what happens, I will always come back to you and if I must, I’d defy the laws of both gods and men to be where you are.”

With their eyes still trapped into each other, Harry brushes the tip of his nose upon the hollow of Tom’s own nose before kissing it devotedly, prompting the older wizard’s skin to tremble sweetly under his touch. 

“My magic aches for you but so am I,” Tom says solemnly, his own voice merely more than a hoarse whisper, as he firmly grabs Harry’s chin and guides him closer. The sun glides on them like a holy blessed fondle but all he can hear is Harry’s shaking breathing, the madly rise and fall of his chest against his own, and before Tom can stop it, his heart throbs the words out of his mouth. “You were my beginning, my middle, and you surely will be my end.”

A beseeched wail rings off Harry’s waiting, pleading lips. “May I kiss you?”

He cups his face, leans down, but Harry’s lips meet his own midway and they hold the same weight of an unbreakable vow. 

  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  


**_SUMMER, 1942._ **

He doesn’t seem able to focus his thoughts in his mind: it restlessly replays what has happened back at the carnation flowers’ field over and over again, prompting his breath to catch at the memory of Harry’s feral summoned blaze, their tangled bodies on the grass, limbs and hips thrusting against each other.

Tom’s heart gives a loud pound as he, fresh from the shower, hurries down the familiar stairs leading to the kitchen. When he strolls down the main corridor, the fingers of his left hand brushing lightly against the tapestry on the walls as though to mark his presence and let the house know he’s back, the carpet doesn’t indent underneath his quiet steps and the paintings whisper curiously as he rustles past them, peering down at him with eyes full of marvel interest and a fond nostalgy.

He enters the kitchen and his stomach bubbles, its inside tickling, when his eyes fall upon Harry’s bare back. The youngest hasn’t heard him, he’s humming a song Tom has never heard before – his own mind tries to wrap around everything but he finds himself bewitched by the way Harry’s voice ricochets softly between the walls of the room as he pours into a glass pitcher, through a fine mesh sieve, a liquid akin to tea. On the kitchen counter, fresh roses are blooming in a vase.

Tom’s eyes glide down the full lenght of Harry’s naked spine, slither down his black trousers, tapered and cuffed at the ankles, before drifting his stare upward, and his own brows fly up when he notices Hedwig roosting peacefully in Harry’s mussed hair, her eyes shutted closed, as if the wizard’s scalp is a nest. 

He takes one glance at the snowy owl before clearing his own throat; a faint sound, yet strong enough to bring Harry to startle, reeling slightly, the muscles in his back flexing with surprise.

“I was looking for you,” He utters, his voice a quiet rumble, before the youngest has the time to say anything.

Harry whirls slowly, careful not to disturb Hedwig. But as he cocks his head to the side, she stretches out her wings at the motion and forces him to raise a hand to stroke down the plumes of her chest with a soft caress. Once he has finished, his eyes fall onto Tom’s and a grin flickers one corner of his mouth.

“I was waiting for you,” He says back, his voice fond and warm as it has always been, and his own gaze slides steadily along Tom’s neck, further down his chest and tummy, before drifting upward and crashing into his charcoal eyes. He hums deeply, then, when the oldest lifts silently a brow, and whirls again, facing the kitchen’s shelves. “Do you want some cold tea? I’ve just made it.”

Tom’s throat tightens, every inch of himself going hot and cold all at once, but he feels his own face softening as he strolls closer to the other wizard to bring himself to stand by his side. “I would love some, thank you.”

Harry smiles brightly and the sunlight filtering through the window reflects on his teeth, alighting his fierce irises. He pours him a glass of cold tea and as Tom drinks it, the taste of mint and lemon fresh and pleasant on the tongue, his own eyes find Hedwig fluffing up her feathers with a hoot, her claws gently clenched into Harry’s ruffled strands, prompting the young wizard to chuckle mildly. 

Quietly, then, Tom holds out his free hand and the owl peers at him headfully before nudging his fingers with her tiny beak in an invitation to pet her. Feeling both of her and Harry’s piercing stare fixed on him, a faint smile curls on his lips and he drifts his hand to stroke gently one of her wings. 

“Your hair is so long she thinks you’re a nest.”

Harry almost chokes on his drink as the mirth disappears from his face, replaced with a sheepish seriousness. He gulps quickly and clasps his own glass before coughing lightly, puffing up his cheeks a moment later; a childish habit of his that has never abandoned him.

“Oi, sod off!” He yelps loudly, shooting Tom a warning look that prompts the oldest to smile amusingly. “She loves my hair. Right, Hedwig?”

The owl hoots softly when called and Tom, giggling low and deep, leans forward without ceasing to stroke the smooth feathers of her wing. 

“I’m sure she does,” He assures him hoarsely, his own voice growing deeper as he carefully tilts his hand away from the owl and sweeps it over Harry, first caressing his cheek and neck, then sliding it down his shoulder, his own grin widening when Harry’s breath hitches at the weight of his own touch upon him sending a rush of heat down his spine, and a soft flush blooms on his ears. 

The youngest turns his head to face him, his emerald eyes latch into his own as Tom’s hand tightens around the back of his neck. Feeling a knot underneath his skin, Tom frowns briefly and takes a final sip from his own drink before placing the empty glass on the kitchen’s counter, freeing his other hand as well. Leisurely, then, as Harry clenches his stomach with both of his hands, interlacings his fingers over his belly, Tom slips behind him and presses firmly his thumbs and first fingers on the back of the younger wizard’s neck.

Hedwig hoots sharply before flying away from his head as Harry drops his shoulders and slowly tucks his chin to his chest. Tom watches her as she sits perched on the window sill, blinking her eyes at them, puffing up as though to warn them that she isn’t going anywhere. Then, as he gently squeezes Harry’s skin, making tiny circles at the base of his nape, and a pleased moan rings off the younger wizard’s lips, his own attention drops on him once more. 

He works both thumbs away from each other, one on the outside of Harry’s each shoulder, and slithers them steadily until they reach his blades. 

A proud grin twists his own lips when Harry gives a low, long groan, and jerks his head up in the attempt to stretch his neck. 

“You’ve surprised me today,” Tom whispers huskily, lips caressing Harry’s left ear as he speaks, before crawling his own thumbs out again and guiding them back to the base of his nape. “I didn’t know you could master fire so easily.”

Peering down at him from behind his shoulder, he tries to seek Harry’s gaze but instead meets Harry’s closed lids. Finding another tension knot where his head meets his neck, he then gives a light, long stroke, applying a focused pressure as his own fingers sweep over onto his shoulders, and hums with delight when Harry blinks his eyes open and his lips depart in a rough, low moan – his breathing has changed and as he presses his lower back against Tom’s hipbone, he seems on the verge of panting. 

“A lot of things have changed in two years, Tom.”

Tom brushes the tip of his own nose against Harry’s ear, feeling his breath catching as he leaves a light kiss upon the skin underneath his lobe. 

“You’re still pretty short,” He taunts, his voice dropping low.

Harry’s mouth flies open, as though he is ready to grunt something back, but it quickly shuts close and a muffled groan rings against his pressed lips the moment Tom kneads his thumbs into the tense muscles of Harry’s neck, embracing his shoulders with the palms of his own hands. 

“I’ll punch you, watch your mouth,” Harry warns through gritted teeth, clenching his hands into fists and propping his knuckles upon the kitchen’s counter in an attempt to steady himself – perhaps because his knees have started to shake lightly.

Tom smiles with unveiled mirth, gliding his fingers up and down the full lenght of Harry’s nape, feeling his muscles loosening beneath his own touch. 

“I’d like to see you try,” He hums heavenly, cocking his head and pressing his own hips further closer to him as his own fingers glide down the youngest’s spine. Harry purrs delightly and his breath leaves him, as if he has been holding it while waiting to find out what Tom’s next movement would be, to hear what he would say. Slowly, then, Tom wraps his hands around Harry’s hips and kneads his thumbs in circular motions up and down the length of his lower back. “Your hair might have changed, too, but it’s still dreadful.”

Surprising him, Harry barks out a mirthful laughter. The sudden outburst prompts his whole body to quiver and he can feel his muscles as they contract underneath his skin, and before he can say anything, in a heartbeat, the younger wizard whirls around and wraps his right arm around his own shoulders.

“How dare you?” Harry taunts, breathless, biting on his lips as an attempt to placate his giggles. He then wipes a tear of mirth from his watery eyes and as Tom cocks his head, his own hands tightening on Harry’s waist, he gives him a strong poke in the chest. “It’s only been one day and you are already pissing me off!”

A wicked grin flickers the corners of both his and Tom’s mouth – and as they’ve genuinely smiled as soon as their gazes have met, it is hard to tell which one of the two has been the reflection of the other. 

Tom narrows his eyes as Harry relaxes against him, clasping his hands behind his own neck, and raises one hand to twirl in his own fingers a strand that has curled over Harry’s forehead, prompting the younger wizard to gracefully tilt his head at the motion as if to meet him in midway.

“Aren’t they growing a bit too much?”

The Gryffindor hums deeply, slowly sizing Tom up, honestly considering his question, but as the oldest drifts his own hand from his hip down his lower back, nails caressing languidly his bare skin, Harry clutches his throat, puffing his cheeks as he leans in, blowing out a breath against Tom’s lips. 

“I can’t be bothered to cut them, Tom,” He exhales hoarsely, frowning, his lower lip protrudes in a sulky pout, almost brushing against Tom’s, as though that thought has never occurred to him before. He pulls the oldest closer by tightening the embrace of his own arms around his neck, and even though his breath is shaking, his voice does not waver. “Are they really this horride?”

As a silent answer, in emphasis, Tom tugs tenderly a lock of hair that he has been twirling before pushing it back from Harry’s forehead, making the boy sighing dramatically. But before he can even blink, suddenly, Harry tilts his head away, his hands roaming down Tom’s shoulders, and a mischievous light lingers around his feral eyes as he lifts his chin in defiance.

“Why don’t you cut them for me?” He asks while leaning in and a sly smile curls on his lips – and even though it is a question, it sounds like a taunt.

The oldest startles lightly, feeling an amused spams rippling beneheat his own features. He wets his lips, a pucker wrinkles between his brows, and his attention drops on Harry’s hands the moment they seizes his own arms.

“You want me to cut your hair?” Tom asks, in a sceptical tone, as though he has to check if he has heard him correctly. 

Harry doesn’t flinch at the surprise in his voice, shrugging his own shoulders with a cunning confidence instead. “You’re the one complaining about it.”

Tom’s left brow arches as he slowly glowers at him, not yet convinced. 

“How on earth am I supposed to know how to cut someone’s h–”

But Harry interrupts him, his green eyes blazing, and brushes away Tom’s words with a shake of the head.

“Oh!” He chides amusingly, flicking the tip of Tom’s nose with his own index finger before grabbing the older wizard’s chin. He shades slightly his own lashes and shoots him an alluring look that prompts a warm jolt to run through the full lenght of Tom’s spine, heat coiling inevitably in his groin; Harry’s voice, tempting and aphrodisiac like that of an angel. “Does that mean you would rather admit your limitations, Tom?”

***

“Are you done?”

Tom narrows menacingly his eyes before pressing his thumb against Harry’s forehead, just upon his scar, and pokes him to make him hang his head backward. With a light sneer, Harry allows it and arches proudly beneath him, exposing the soft and sinuous skin of his neck, his delicately shaped collarbone, which, even though he has worn a shirt – Tom’s shirt – before they headed toward the bathroom, is still left partially uncovered. 

“Is this going to take the entire afternoon?” Harry asks, a mirthful delight creeping in his tone. He keeps his eyes closed, unable to see the dreadful look Tom shoots him, and his lips curl in the imitation of a mocking smirk as he pinches the bridge of his nose behind his glasses. “Maybe you shouldn’t have complained so much about my–”

With a flick of his own wrist, fingers wrapped tightly around the scissors while the other hand is gently detangling Harry’s soft curls, Tom cuts another lock of his wild hair, making him puff his flushed cheeks with amusement. 

“Just for the record,” Tom mutters, his voice having grown terribly low and hoarse, before leaning forward and bending his shoulders over the younger wizard, whose legs spread naturally, welcoming – or inviting – him in, leaving very little room for the imagination. “You’ve asked for this.”

Harry hums quietly and cocks his head the moment the oldest cuts a few strands of his wild and horride fringe, leaving him more space where to work.

“I did,” He confirms quietly, stubborn as ever, and something akin to pride creeps softly in his voice, making it more honeyed. He blinks one eye open and scoops Tom from below as if to make sure the oldest hasn’t the intention of cutting his throat as well as his hair. “Only because you didn’t like them long and I surely didn’t want to spend our  _ only  _ week together with you complaining about how horrible my hair is.”

A series of sweet giggles rings off Harry’s lips as Tom sighs deeply, feigning indifference; the sound of a man who knows he has committed a foolish mistake and has now to pay the price of provoking Harry James Potter’s revenge. 

A comfortable silence falls upon them like a spell. Harry bows his head as Tom begins to work with the ruffled and coiled strands at the nape of his neck, thinking about all the thousand things he would love to ask him, all things he has missed over the past years, things he knows Harry would have never wrote to him by letters – things Harry has been afraid of, things he has been insecure or unsure about, things that has had hurt him, things that perhaps has had made him cry, or scream with agony, or regret to having chosen such a path for them to walk; how painful must have it been for him, has it been as painful as it has been for Tom? Worse? Better?

The questions prick in his mouth but they cannot talk about it. Not yet, at least. 

Instead, his mind takes him back to the carnation flowers’ field, a mere reflection of their last summer together in Cornwall.

Without ceasing to carefully cut his hair, Tom peers at the younger wizard beneath him: Harry is sitting cosily on the chair they have brought in the bathroom from the drawing room, his legs are crossed at his ankles and his hands are clenched softly into fists, resting lightly upon his knees. 

“When did you master the  _ Ignem  _ incantation?”

The skin below Harry’s ears flushes with sheepish sadisfaction, as if he’s proud to see how much he has surprised him during their duel but yet cannot stop to be embarrassed about what has happened soon after it, and a delighted smile flickers the corner of Tom’s mouth.

_ How adorable. _

“During my third year,” Harry answers while rubbing restlessly the palms of his hands against his thighs, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his trousers; the redness on his skin growing weaker with each word. “I’ve asked Remus to give me some private lessons when he came to teach at Hogwart.”

“You wrote to me about it.”

Harry chuckles softly, a velvety sweetness creeping in his voice, as if he has hoped for him to remember about it. He then inhales sharply when Tom presses a finger under his chin, asking him silently to raise his head.

But before doing so, the youngest yanks Tom’s pants to pull him closer, making him stagger to his own feet, almost swaying. Tom’s nostrils flare arbuntly but he has barely the time to grunt, as though to scold him, because Harry spreads his legs wider while alluringly lifting his head and, in a heartbeat, his arms slither down Tom’s legs and wraps possessively around the back of each of his own knees. 

“He first taught me the Patronus Charm and then helped me with other spells as well,” He whispers, his bright eyes roaming over Tom’s face, over and over again, scanning attentively every little detail of his features as if searching for another unexpected reaction. “We’ve started with the Patronus because I’ve fainted once during class, after I’ve seen my–”

“Your Boggart,” Tom cuts him off, voice steady and solemn, making Harry shut his own mouth and nod with affirmation. He hums lightly, then, and grabs the boy’s chin to tilt it slightly up before cutting some strands curling over his ears; a slight folding in his own forehead as proof of his own utmost concentration. 

“Dementors are abhorrent things, aren’t they?”

Harry smiles at him with all his teeth, his eyes flying wider behind his glasses, emphasising his astounded expression, and Tom can’t help but to smile back even if his own attention is fixed on his now-way-shorter hair. 

“You remember.”

After a final cut, Tom sighs shortly with relief and lays the scissor in the sink. 

He then shoots the boy an inquisitive look that invites Harry to stand up and strolls in front of the bathroom’s mirror, giving himself a quick glance before nodding his head in affirmation.

And as the youngest whirls to face him, Tom snaps his fingers together and the mess made by Harry’s hair on the floor vanishes in the blink of the eye.

“I remember everything you wrote to me,” He utters, feeling his mouth as it goes dry with each word. Elegantly, he crosses his arms upon his chest and poses for a moment while Harry hoists himself from the ground and sits on the edge of the sink, cocking curiously his head without breaking eye contact with him, his legs dangling loosely. “But please, tell me more. It’s incredible that you could cast a Patronus when you were only thirteen.”

The Gryffindor takes a good, long look at him, drinking more of him in a way he has never done before – a starving sparkle flaming unshamly in his irises.

“It took me a while, though,” Harry admits, his voice suddenly more deep, as if he is having some trouble finding it. “I think the memories I’ve used were, let’s say, very strong? I don’t know. I’ve just…” 

Tom nods lightly, trying to reassure him with a softening glance. He knows Harry must have thought about his parents – but he wonders, because his own nature is that of an egoistic soul, if he has thought about him, too. 

Yet, he doesn’t ask.  _ There’s no need to. _

“Keep going,” He urges quietly as he leans with his back against the closed door behind him, crossing his legs in front of him. “What else have you learnt?”

Suddenly, an amused giggle rings off Harry’s lips and the boy tilts his head back when it grows into a rich laughter.

“I wanted to learn how to become an Animagi, like Sirius and my dad have done during their fifth year,” He says, rather breathlessly, before his laughter softens into sweet chuckles the moment Tom’s eyes widen with genuine astonishment. “Obviously Remus didn’t let me, he said I was too young. But we shall see, I really want to. I don’t care what it’d take.”

But the oldest, startled, forgets himself quite easily. 

Tom rolls his eyes and straightens slightly, stretching his neck before chiding him without thinking: “You wouldn’t be that reckless to do it alone, would you?”

Harry laughs amusingly, waving his right hand as if to push Tom’s question away.

“Anyway!” He cuts him off, diverting the conversation elsewhere as another delighted, mirthful laughter escapes his wet lips. 

And Tom, narrowing his eyes as his attention drops on the slight quivers running through Harry’s slim shoulders, decides to let it go for the present moment, perhaps too raptured by the overwhelming feeling of being able to talk to him once more, to enjoy the sound of Harry’s laughter ricocheting in his ears, after years, making his heart thubbing faster – to simply be with him.

_ Two years have been and he has become even more fascinating. _

Harry clears his throat, recollecting himself, and rubs the palms of his hands against his face as if to wash away the ghost of his own outburst.

“I began to exercise on my own before the end of the year without telling Remus,” He explains, his voice hoarsely and yet pleasant to hear. “I’ve asked Mulciber which books you’ve used to read most, too.”

A vicious grin flickers one side of Tom’s mouth as a sudden sense of pride streams through his blood, prompting Harry to feel it through their bond, and a crimson-red blooms gently on the younger wizard’s cheeks, but it doesn’t stop him from turning his head to seek Tom’s piercing stare. 

“How did you train for the Triwizard Tournament?”

Harry exhales a gleeful chuckle and slaps his cheeks lightly with both hands before running his fingers through his hair in an excited swipe.

“Oh, about that. Hermione and Ron have helped me a lot,” He says, his voice thick with mirth, making the older wizard’s heart miss a beat. “We’ve trained together the whole year,” He explains before clapping his hands together, his chest heaving softly. “We’re even thinking about making a secret organization to practise as a group some proper Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

A heavy weight falls upon Tom’s shoulders and the questions suddenly die on his dry tongue: he has always thought it would have been easier for Harry to move on, that being surrounded by friends and people that love him would have made it easier for him not to think about how far they were from one another, easing him and filling the void in him caused by his own absence; but knowing it and seeing it are very different things and perhaps, he thinks, it has been a mistake to come visiting him. 

But before his own thoughts can go any further, Harry takes him back.

“I wish you could be there with us!” He yelps, excited, before shooting him a fond look that prompts Tom’s shoulders to sink with relief, his neck to heat slightly when their eyes lock together. “You would love it, I’m sure you would have so much fun. Everytime Hermione has an idea for the group I always think about what you would think and sometimes I start laughing on my own because I can picture your reactions so clearly in my mind!”

Harry’s words catch him off-guard but Tom’s eyes drift closed for just a moment, allowing him to feel his chest as it fills with a way-softer warmth. 

Yet, before he can blink them open again, Harry speaks once more.

“Enough of me,” He chides lively and, once Tom’s gaze falls onto his, a serene smile flickers the corner of his mouth. He then props his hands upon the edges of the sink, crossing his legs at his ankles, and nods fiercely in Tom’s direction. “I’m not the one training with a master of the Dark Arts.”

With his own neonate doubts receding, Tom exhales silently. 

When he opens his mouth to speak, he finds his own voice deeper than it was mere moments ago. 

“I can’t tell you nothing about it and you know it.”

“Nothing at all?”

Tom shakes his head firmly before cocking it to one side, prompting Harry to look away as he clumsily puffs up his cheeks and pouts, and even though he can’t see him, the oldest shoots him a chiding look. 

“She wants me to keep my training a secret.”

A low sound comes out of Harry’s throat and he tilts his head backward, inviting Tom’s attention to drop on his exposed Adam’s apple. 

“That’s so unfair, Tom, I’ve told you everything!” He grunts loudly, parting his lips widely as he inhales with his open mouth, and frowns clearly affronted. 

Suddenly, though, Harry lowers his lids lightly and shoots him a curious gaze as he pensively wets his lower-lip with the tip of his tongue, rubbing at his own hands.

Their eyes lock and Tom feels the words dying in his dry mouth, his heart constricting, his breath catching down his sore throat. 

How much he has missed him, how much he has longed for his touch – at first he has thought that he was going insane, that his mind as well as his body and soul were betraying him, he hasn’t known what to do, what to think, and has had hate his own lack of perseverance and control; but then days have passed, and so did weeks, months, years, and the pain has gradually bloomed into an excruciating longing only to later grow into a more conscious and yearning desire. And now that they are finally in front of each other, the things he would love to finally do to him. He would sell whatever is left of his own soul to have his body pressed against his own once more, the way it has been after their duel at the carnation flowers’ field, but this time with no clothes stopping them from chasing one another’s pleasure; to have his lips hunting down his own, his hands roaming over his own back and his nails scratching the skin of his own back at each fervent kiss, at each desperate thrust–

“Is she pretty?”

Thunderstruck in a way he has never been before, Tom blinks his eyes a few times before recomposing himself. It takes him a minute to remember what they have been talking about before he has dared to imagine the mess of what their naked limbs tangled together would be like.

Unable to control his own body, his finger twitch and his nostrils flare abruptly as a breathless chuckle rings of his own lips.

“She’s seventy-seven years old, Harry.”

A crimson-red, as deep as that of a finest wine, flushes all over Harry’s cheeks and his eyes widen behind his glasses with pure shock, almost as if he has been caught while secretly touching himself. His lips depart with a sheepish awkwardness, forming the shape of a silent and inaudible _ “Oh” _ , but Tom precedes him before the younger wizard can say anything at all.

“And married,” He adds, trying to hide the amusement in his voice behind a slight cough. “To the Greek Minister of Foreign Magical Affairs.”

Harry gulps a breath of air as he straightens his back and his hands clench firmly around the edge of the sink, his knuckles whitening. 

“Right. Dumbledore’s friend,” The teen cries out, his voice crawling with some difficulties out of his mouth as if his mind is nothing but a twister of thoughts, his heart a hurricane of emotions. “He must be a very lucky man.”

A wicked grin twists on Tom’s lips as he works himself into a frenzy of delight.

“A lucky woman,” He corrects him, silverly, feeling his entire body burning with heat as he tries not to laugh, lifting his brow up when Harry shoots him an astonished look. “They are both very lucky to have each other, indeed.”

If possible, the red on Harry’s face seems to grow even richer and deeper the moment he cocks his head and shuts his eyes tight-closed in the attempt to avoid Tom’s inquisitive gaze.

Feeling his own arms numbingly, Tom slithers them behind his back, clasping his hands together as he bites slightly his inner-cheeks, not ceasing to stare right at the other wizard.

“Is there something you wish to ask me, dearest?”

Harry sighs deeply and, unable to take the awkwardness any longer, he deigns to blink his eyes open and seek for Tom’s gaze. 

“No,” He mumbles with a low whisper, almost to himself, and his breathing wobbles unsteadily. He inhales deeply, running both hands through his hair as his own sparkling eyes bore into Tom’s, and clears his throat with a rough cough, trying to look as composed as possible with the only result of emphasising his own sheepiness. “No, nothing at all,” He utters again, straining himself to sound more convinced.

“I don’t believe you.”

Harry opens his mouth, hesitates, and shuts it again. He does it for at least three more times before finding the courage to finally snap. 

“You said you’ve met a lot of interesting people,” He says before letting out a long breath, slowly, seemingly unable to combine the words with his thoughts, and blushes further when Tom lets his own considerate stare linger on his lips a moment longer. Then Harry inhales another long breath and starts to babble rapidly, the words coming out his lips almost in an incomprehensible way as he gesticulates frantically with his hands. “I mean, I know that you and I–that we are–aren’t we? Anyway, since you must have met someone that has caught your attention, I’ve wondered if you–you know, if you have had someone whom, well,  _ uhm _ –”

Suddenly, as the most delicious feeling of merriment wafts over him when he realizes that the emotion creeping in Harry’s voice is  _ jealousy _ , Tom cuts him off. 

“Are you seriously thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

“What do you think that I am thinking?”

Tom straightens himself slowly, feeling Harry’s penetrating stare piercing his skin as he strolls leisurely and brings himself to stand right in front of the younger wizard. Then, collecting what is left of his own patience, he reaches down and grabs Harry’s legs, patiently throwing them around his own waist before seizing a firm hold on his hips with his own hands. 

His charcoal eyes narrow the moment Harry swallows slowly, hardly, and his own left hand slithers under Harry’s shirt to trace the full lenght of his side, capturing each one of his warm shivers with his own fingertips.

“Look at me,” He demands, voice suddenly deeper. 

But Harry purses his lips, as if to fight the consuming desire to press them against Tom’s, and –  _ and, oh, Tom is now sure he has never craved this much for something to happen  _ – hides his face in the space between the older wizard’s neck and shoulder, squeezing the front of Tom’s shirt with his hands the moment Tom exhales hoarsely against his left temple. 

“I know what you’ve said before leaving,” Harry whispers, his chest barrelling into Tom’s as he tightens the embrace of his legs around his own waist, sending warm jolts directly in his own groin the moment their hips collide lightly with one another’s, and Harry’s voice drifts off as Tom shifts his own left hand down his thigh to pull him closer, a soft moan ringing surprisingly off his trembling lips. “And I hold close to my heart all the letters we’ve exchanged through these years, but we were so fucking far that I’ve thought you could–”

He doesn’t want to know. Perhaps it is the very first time that he doesn’t want to know what Harry has thought about, that he doesn’t care. 

Tom shakes his head and tightens his own hold on him to shut him up, his nostrils flaring slightly while inhaling the so familiar and yet different scent coming off the youngest’s hair, his skin, his mouth. He cocks his head to one side and grabs Harry’s chin with his left hand, tilting it toward himself as he draws forward, smiling faintly when Harry drifts his hands behind his own back, inviting him – begging him – to devour his welcoming lips. 

Yet, instead of meeting his pleading kiss, Tom turns his head and presses his own lips against Harry’s left ear, whispering directly into it.

“Harry,” He calls him, trying to hide the shivers running down his own spine from the contact, certain that Harry’s fingertips, now roaming leisurely all over his own back, can feel them all. His hand slithers from Harry’s chin down the back of his nape, gripping the strands coiling there, holding him in place, and Harry succumbs to the sharp passion with which Tom whispers the words into his ear. “A day hasn’t passed by that I haven’t thought about you.”

Then, as the youngest tilts his body backward by pressing the palms of his hands upon his own chest, Tom’s attention drops on his face and he finally notices how Harry’s expression has grown serious. He doesn’t have the time to make a move, though, because in a heartbeat, while quivering slightly, Harry’s jaw sets and the teen stares up at him with an intensity that makes his own inside shatter, his own lips tingling with a livid and excruciating hunger. 

He remembers the first time he has caught the glimpse of Harry’s feral eyes, how he himself has been rapt, how he has lived longing for his every look ever since – perhaps he has been burning for him from the very instant their gazes have met, and once he has tasted a life with him by his side, he knew he could never bear to be without him ever again. 

“Is this true?” Harry asks, his voice nothing more than a rough whisper, as he presses gently his forehead against Tom’s, the pad of his right thumb passing over Tom’s lower-lip in an eager caress. “There is no one else?”

Harry’s voice crashes softly against his own mouth and everything – each nerve, each bone and vein, every doubt and every fear – shatters. 

Tom exhales deeply, without even realizing he has been holding on his breath, because there are so many things he needs to tell him, things he has been too much of a coward to admit both to himself and to him, things that has frightened him so much for too long, things that has confused him because he was so restive and obstinate, things he has never understood and perhaps he would never understand entirely and yet sweetly torment each waking moment and dream of his, each thought and fantasy.

Tom’s lips depart underneath Harry’s fingertips and, without hesitating, his own hands clenching on his trembling hips, he captures the tip of the younger wizard’s thumb with his own mouth, locking their eyes together before sucking down its full length, reaching languidly his knuckle. He grins cheekily as Harry lets out a deep, surprised  _ wail _ , and his charcoal eyes narrow at the movement in his throat, a mere effort he tries to make to control his rasping breathing.

“ _ Tom– _ ” He cries out, broken – his voice uneven, barely a sound – when the oldest releases his thumb and presses himself against him, hard and solemn.

Tom towers over him and his own left hand caughts in his ruffled hair while the other roams under his shirt, drifting eagerly down the younger wizard’s lower back, guiding him to thrust his hips against his own and a hoarse groan leaves Tom’s lips, merging with Harry’s choked moan, the moment their erections clashed with one another, hidden underneath their clothes.

“How dare you?” He asks as he clenches his fist on Harry’s scalp and tugs some of his strands, the words stumbling out of him before he has the time to organize his own storming thoughts. Beneath him, Harry winces breathless and blinks fast, tears forming at the edges of his bright eyes, his legs tighten firmly around Tom’s solid hips as he embraces Tom’s shoulders with his shaking arms. “How dare you think there could ever be someone else, Harry?”

The youngest’s mouth bursts open with a wheezy breath, but before the words can slip out of him, Tom stoops over him and pins him against the mirror cabinet behind them and their lips crash violently against each other.

They’re kissing – deeply, lustfully. Harry’s hands wander all over his own body as if they’re searching for something to keep him from losing himself while Tom slithers one hand under his neck and the other wraps around one of his thighs, fingers slipping behind his quivering knee, pulling him closer. 

When they break the kiss, his head spinning so fast Tom has to bite his own tongue to gain some consciousness back, Harry is breathing hard. 

Their eyes lock quickly when Harry tugs up Tom’s shirt and the older wizard heaves an excited sigh of relief before lifting his own arms, allowing him to pull it over his own head and toss it to the floor a moment later. Then Harry’s fingers slide down Tom’s chest, further down his belly, and Tom hums with approval when one of his palms brushes curiously against his own bulge, now prominent through the slacks. 

He schooches down and his lips touch him and kiss the full lengh of his neck, making Harry hums, pleased, when his own teeth nip at his soft skin, and the heart throbs madly in his ribs as if it is, too, burning alive with the heat of their tangled limbs. Harry’s hands soon find a home on Tom’s lower back and the fingernails dig into his skin, but a loud moan rings off his swollen lips when Tom yanks down the neck of Harry’s shirt and dares to suck the skin above the left side of his collarbone, leaving marks that will soon grow into bruises. 

Harry tries to hold on to him, gasping for air, and Tom aches with the tastes and colors of sensations he has never thought he would ever see, drinking sounds that are way better than the ones he himself has imagined. 

“You wound me,” He groans against Harry’s lower-lip before biting it, sucking it with a profane devotion, and devours his wretched wail, swallowing a cracked breath when Harry yanks his own now-disheveled hair to pull him down and force him to meet his own pleading lips. They kiss once more and their hands roam over each other’s body as though to memorize every little detail, every curve and freckle, every shiver and quiver, and when Tom tilts his head away, Harry cries out, needingly, unsatisfied. He thrusts against him and Harry’s hands grab his shoulders, fingers tightening there with a soft urgency, making Tom exhale against his temple. “You had the audacity to slip under my skin,” He whispers, gulping a grunt caught in his own throat just before Harry seizes his nape with his own hands and claims the skin on Tom’s Adam’s apple with his own teeth. “To invade my blood and mind, seize my heart,” Tom’s voice drifts off as a low, rough moan rings off his lips the moment Harry’s teeth sink deeper in his skin, killing him and somehow bringing him back to life at the same time, and he runs his hands down Harry’s body, drifting them up through his hair to pull him off himself and bite his chin possessively before leaving wet kisses along the full lenght of his graciously shaped jaw. “And still you think I would want someone else?”

Harry presses his lips tightly, muffling a trembling moan – his breathing jagged, his body convulsing against his own – and Tom wraps one hand around his neck, a gentle and yet passionate touch, pressing the thumb against his lower-lip to lure him into departing his mouth, wanting to hear him, his charcoal eyes narrowing as he shoots him a demanding look.

“Can’t you see you are the only one I’ve always truly wanted?” He asks, the voice coming from the back of his throat, deep and strong, and Harry’s tongue flicks over the full lenght of his thumb, licking it voluptuary, moving with a sensuality Tom has never imagined he could ever hold, and everything flares, he finds himself beyond any reason, beyond insanity, his heart is collapsing in his ribs and he couldn’t care less. He can’t find the time to breathe as he wraps both hands around Harry’s neck and brings him closer, hissing softly, “The one and only I will always want,” before claiming his lips once more.

Nothing makes sense anymore and yet everything feels just right: their tongues chasing each other, their sighs and sweet moans merging together, their hands roving over one another’s arms and hips, chest and back.

Then, suddenly, Harry shoves him back, off himself, and Tom is too overwhelmed to protest – but before he has the time to gather some composure, the youngest pulls his own shirt over his own head and tosses it somewhere to the bathroom’s floor, bold and fierce, prompting Tom’s breath to catch in his sore throat when his beseeching green eyes slump into his own. 

_ He has never felt this alive. _

Harry clings to him, lips brushing against his own as he begs, his voice nothing but a sensual and provocative prayer:  _ “Please…” _

Tom gulps silently, swallowing down a dry breath, and his jaw clenched tight.

“Lift your hips for me, dearest,” He whispers huskily, breathing with short, quick breaths, before hooking his fingers around the waist of Harry’s trousers, tugging them down with a firm yank the moment Harry sighs desperately and lifts his hips. He hears him gasping hard when his own hands move up his naked legs, caressing the insides of his thighs while Harry’s lips make their way down his own neck, consuming what little is left of Tom’s self-control, and he can’t help but to moan breathlessly, low and rough, when the youngest unbuttons his own slacks, unzipping them in a heartbeat. 

Then, beyond himself, Tom hoists him into his arms and Harry’s hands twist around his own neck and his legs wraps around his own hips with a kind of intensity that makes him wonder how come his own knees haven’t failed him yet.

_ “Tom, _ ” Harry moans lustily, grinding his teeth when the oldest pins him against the bathroom’s closed door and kisses his neck, his throat, hands clenching and squeezing his bum’s cheeks. _ “Bedroom,” _ He pleads and demands at once, chest heaving, tears streaming down his watery eyes, making Tom growl when his nails graze the skin upon his own shoulder-blades. _ “Now–” _

Suddenly, there’s a sound of footfall made by someone walking up the stairs. 

“Boys!” Remus’s voice echoes from the main corridor. “We’re back!”

They both stiffen in less than a heartbeat – caught off guard, panicked, their limbs suddenly frozen – and grow utterly silent. After having exchanged a gingerly look, loosening lightly the hold on Harry’s bum, his eyebrows flying high up, Tom inhales deeply, very deeply, and bites the inner of his cheeks.

“Weren’t they busy with the Order today?” He asks, voice struggling to come out of his swollen lips, and touches the tip of Harry’s nose with his own.

Harry gives a quick jerk of his head, shoving it against the door behind him as his lips burst open with a soundless grunt of complaint.

“Oh, heavens and hells. Please,” He cries quietly, still panting, and Tom leans in, leaving soft kisses along his neck, his jawline, drifting under his chin with the hope to calm both of their wild pulses down. “Please. Not this, not now.”

The oldest blows a breath, trying to cease the racing of his heart. He tilts his head at Harry, teasing him with an amused look, but the younger wizard brings his forehead to rest against Tom’s left shoulder and his hold onto him tightens as if he doesn’t want to let him go. 

“I want this, Tom,” Harry whispers, biting back a shaking breath, and Tom’s left hand roams upward, caressing his lower back to reassure him, capturing each one of his trembling quivers with warm fingertips. “I want this so much.”

Something inside of Tom softens. 

He leaves a fond and yet ardent kiss on Harry’s temple before dropping him gently to the floor, rubbing his own hands down his arms, watching him taking a tight breath as his arms slip around him. 

“We’ll come back to this later, love,” He promises, with a hushed voice, while running his left hand over Harry’s hair when the teen stares up at him with hopeful bright eyes; his own breathing crashing softly against his lips. 

  
  


***

In the moonlight, as they lay in Harry’s bed facing each other, Harry’s glasses forgotten somewhere under the pillows, Tom can make out the shape of his smooth face, clean from the spots or blotches that typically affect young teens his age, of his carnous lips slightly parted, of the sleepy tears moistening his eyelashes. He can smell him, too: the salt of clean sweat, strong but not too strong, the familiar scent of clover honey crushed against his ruffled hair. 

Even with just the pallor of the moon, Harry looks as beautiful as ever: the muscles of his neck appear and disappear as he moves his head to stroke clumsily the tip of his nose against Tom’s own, and when he blinks, his eyes shine brightly through the dark – life hasn’t abandoned him, the pitch black of the night seems unable to consume him. 

“Harry,” He calls him, deep and huskily, as he trails his own fingers on his skin under the shirt of his pyjama. He caresses languidly the soft curve of his hip-bone, drawing downward, his own fingertips drinking up each of his warm shivers, ears listening to his lovely muffled whines. “Come closer.”

Harry hums profoundly, heavenly, and shifts closer toward him, allowing Tom to hear the sound of his throat as he slowly swallows. His emerald eyes hold his own and the teen’s hands reach to touch him, too, but more restlessly, prompting his own pulse to jump cruelly, his own mouth to dry. 

Tom has barely a second to bite back a relieved sigh before Harry cups his cheeks with his own bare palms, thumbs brushing gently and yet sensually against the high-cheekbones. 

“I want to ask you something,” He whispers softly, glancing at him through his lashes as his lips twist in an eager smirk. He tilts his hands away from Tom’s face and they silently find a home on his bare chest as their legs hug each other under the sheets. “Because it has been on my mind for quite a time.”

Tom’s hands move under Harry’s shirt and his arms slip behind the teen’s arched back, fingertips wandering upward and then downward the full lenght of it, slowly, nails scratching lightly the soft skin upon his lower back, making him moan quietly as Harry shivers pleasantly under his own touch and doesn’t withdraw. Instead, he brings his forehead to rest against the other’s.

“Ask it away, then.”

Harry closes his eyes and his hands roam down Tom’s belly blindly, knowing exactly where to touch him, where to find each curve of his own body.

“What are–” He blows out, their lips touching barely each other like feathers, his breathing beginning to rasp as Tom’s left hand finds its way under his pants, caressing the back of his thigh. “What are we?”

Tom’s head spins fast, his heart throbbing violently, and he thinks he’s about to lose the grasp on reality because Harry’s scent is everywhere, omnipresent, and everything is so hot;  _ how can one survive such a flaming passion?  _

“Aren’t you the one who’s said we can be as many things we want?” He hums – a puff of air against Harry’s lips, his voice husky with a twist of loyal fondness and an aching thirst – and bows his own head to kiss Harry’s nose, his left cheek, only to then drift along the full lenght of his jaw, up his temple, reaching his forehead; the words leaving his own mouth with each new wet and vehement kiss. “I think of you as many things,” He whispers, kissing the side of his right eye, glimpsing a feverishly sparkle in his irise. “My damnation,” Another kiss, this time on his right cheek. “My salvation,” Another, under his chin, and Harry tilts his head backward, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he’s running out of breath. “My friend, my equal,” Tom kisses his Adam’s Apple, tracing the shape of his neck with the tip of his own tongue, feeling Harry’s nails grazing gently the skin upon the middle of his own back.

“My other half,” He leaves three kisses on the way down to the teen’s collarbone, one softer than the other, drinking in Harry’s tortured and yet sweet wails. Time falls all around them and Tom squeezes the back of his thigh as his own teeth sink down the smooth skin upon Harry’s shoulder, wanting him to know how he himself feels, and then, faintly, he tilts his own head away, lifting it up, meeting Harry’s watery gaze; there’s so much life, so much pain and yet so much love in his eyes, he can’t help but to let the words crash against his lips as their scents merge into one. “My beloved.”

Harry’s whole body is trembling, his hips quivering with an agonizing desire, his hands clutching at the strands at the back of Tom’s nape, a touch colored with a gentle hunger, and Tom runs his own hand down his legs, gripping them above his knees to inch them apart only to make room for himself in between them as he gently stoops down on him. 

Harry’s lips depart, as if he is about to say something, but Tom seals them with an ardent kiss: their mouth open under each other, their breath pouring into one another, and he can’t do anything else but to drink him in, each muffled wail as it comes, afraid to watch him vanish beneath him. 

“Tom,” Harry gasps, moving his longing fingers down the older wizard’s shoulders, caressing each freckle, each curve, his eyes burning like blazing flames without his glasses; his voice, quiet and sweetly damp like the calm before the storm. “I want more. I need more.”

Tom swallows a hoarse growl down his throat, hands tightening inevitably on his knees and spreading Harry’s legs wider until their hips can collide against one another, prompting them both to cry out a moan upon each other’s lips. 

“Come here,” He demands quietly, voice rough. He tilts his left fingers away, firmly snapping them together to cast a  _ silence charm _ all around the room before grabbing tightly Harry’s twitching hip with the bare palm of his hand, moving it slowly under his shirt, up his chest. “You’re  _ insatiable _ .”

He then crooks down on him to kiss his neck, the span of his chest, getting drunk on his skin quivering under his own touch. Harry smells like the earth and finest honey and tastes like fresh-squeezed oranges, he might as well get drunk on him, his senses might abandon him any moment. 

“I would never, either,” Harry pants, breathless, as his hands tug Tom’s hair to pull him closer, further dishielving them; his voice deeper. “I would never.”

The oldest exhales heavily against the crook of his neck, soft like the delicate velvet of a blooming petal, ad his right hand slips over the quickening rise and fall of Harry’s belly, as though smoothing finest cloth, while the other seizes a hold on his left thigh, guiding it around his own burning hips.

“What?”

“I would never want someone else,” He hears him mumbles, voice croaked, as Harry’s fists clench tightly his own hair while tilting his head backward to give him more access. “I…” Harry’s voice drifts off, as if he struggles to articulate the words, and Tom laps his vulnerable Adam’s apple, eagerly, slowly and patiently, before starting to leave wet and sloppy kisses on his neck, drinking up each of his wrecked wails, feeling him as he swallows, breath stuck in his throat. “I want you, I only want you,” Harry pants, finding the waistband of Tom’s pants with his fingers and tugs, pulling them off with the help of his own bare feet, and the oldest hums, both relieved and starved at once. “I’ve always wanted you. I will always want you.”

Tom kisses languidly his jawline, cupping his cheek with one hand as their hips thrust fervently against one another and Harry’s breath catches.

“This brings me peace,” He hums deeply, feeling the youngest shuddering beneath him, peeking at him through his eyelashes with aroused fascination before bending down on him once more, seeking thirsty his pleading skin. 

The younger wizard shivers as Tom eases him back onto the pillows, careful not to crush him underneath his own weight.

“How–” Harry tries to ask while tugging Tom’s hair with what little is left of his patience or sanity or spirit or whatever is there to be, but a loud whine breaks free from his swollen lips as Tom experimentally rocks against him. “How so?”

Tom’s lips part and he whispers the words in his ear. 

“Because I’m a selfish man, Harry,” He admits huskily, voice terribly low, almost inaudible. “I want you to be mine and mine only.”

He schooches over him, then, propping his own knees on bed to keep him down with his right hand while the fingers of the other run down his neck, shifting further down his body lustfully, they roam all over him as Harry haves a soaked sigh of aching desire, impatient and eager with the pent-up tension he’s been carrying around for the past few years, and yet attentive and caring enough as though not to ruin nor to rush the moment.

“Tom?” Harry whispers, his voice is hoarse, cracked as it has ever been, full of ardor and despair; both a poison and an antinode. 

Tom stares down at him, hungrily, enraptured by his pure pleading sight: Harry is sprawled under him, lips red and swollen, his disheveled hair nothing more than an untidy mess, eyes gleaming with a silent but feral imploration; his shirt is lifted up his body, revealing his tummy, his softly and delicately shaped abs, his bare chest; Harry, radiating indisputable love, still keen and untamed even though seized firmly under him, looking up at his own penetrating stare with such impetuosity and passion, the fervent suffering of a martyr. 

Slowly, Tom rips the shirt off him and storms down on him as though he wants to strike him; but if anything, he wants to love him.

He bends sinuously over him to lap and bite his pink nipples, savoring each of his pleased whimpers. Harry jerks under him, twisting with pleasure, and Tom pulls back slightly only to kneel in front of him, grabbing his waist with his own bare hands, clenching his pants with his own fingers. 

“ _ Please _ ,  _ Tom _ .  _ Please _ ,  _ please _ ,” Harry babbles, eyelashes damped with tears, sending jolts of aching arousal straight down his own groin as Tom wraps Harry’s legs around his hips and Harry’s hands clutch at the sheets, tightly and desperately, he thrusts himself against him as if to seek for any kind of relief and release. 

Their eyes meet and embrace, prompting something to bloom between them: a mutual understanding, an intimate resolution like a sudden bolt in the storm.

As Harry sobs, spreading out under him, Tom tugs and pulls off his underwear in one calm and yet urgent yank. Harry’s cock is rock hard, red, shivering with expectations, desperate for attention, and his own left hand wraps around it, with no hesitation, as though it is meant to welcome him, to hold him, to be  _ his _ and his  _ only _ , and Harry wails, crying out Tom’s name, not knowing what he is begging for: his eyelashes flutter and Tom thinks he can hear the thumbing of his heart following a perfectly crazy, excruciating rhythm with his own.

Harry gasps breathlessly, mouth agape with pleasure. Suddenly, his right hand clenches firly around the wooden bed-head behind them; the fingers of his left hand come to hang onto Tom’s thigh, causing him to groan, hoarsely and low.

_ “Tom…” _ He pants, begging him feverishly; his whole body is burning up, waves of heat come off him, swallowing Tom up. 

Tom has dreamt about it, thought about it, imagined it so many times in his mind, over and over again, all these years they have been apart, at some point he has thought he was going to be sick, that he wasn’t normal, that something of himself was off – but the sight of Harry reaching the peak of pleasure is way better than he has fantasized it could ever be.

Harry keeps his liquid eyes on him, locking their gazes together, his cheeks flushed crimson-red, and warm tears of pleasure stream quietly down his temples: his fingers are clenched onto his own thighs and his legs are crossed at his ankles, wrapped around his own hips, bare heels propped on his own lower back, engulfing him with the sensation of being on fire. 

And as Tom gives him one final stroke, allowing him to finally release himself, the moan escaping Harry’s lips is not soft, not innocent nor low; it’s loud, rough and deep, echoing in walls of their room, full of the passion he is feeling, as if it is meant to remind him how Harry would willingly and successfully bear the most blazing flames of hell for him, if he had to. 

Slowly, guiding him through the spasms at the end of his orgasm, Tom’s right hand moves over his quivering hip, up his side, only to then drift down his leg, caressing his knee gently, while brushing the fingertips of the other up his trembling belly. His eyes narrow lightly as he collects Harry’s cum with two fingers, his left middle and index, and brings them over his own mouth.

Their gazes lock and Harry winces hoarsely, breathless, when Tom licks his own fingers before sucking his cum off them, tasting it hungrily on his tongue before swallowing it, slowly, lustfully, making Harry cry out deepy, surprised. 

He has barely the time to cast a wandless  _ cleaning spell _ , though, because in a heartbeat the teen is lifting himself up and is holding onto him, forcing Tom to wrap both of his own arms around his waist to pull him closer.

Harry cups Tom’s cheeks and kisses him, slowly and languidly, moaning sweetly as the older wizard’s mouth responds promptly to his, claiming his tongue with his own, and when they tilt away from one another, his eyes green shine devotedly, his lips set in a soft smile, as if he is seeing him anew. 

“Let me,” Harry whispers, still breathing hard, as he pokes Tom’s chest with the bare palms of his hands, lightly and fondly, urging him to sit back as he quickly adjusts himself above him and places his own lips around his lower-lip, licking at his skin lightly before demanding: “Let me and don’t move.”

And Tom, feeling his insides burning and tingling, does as he has been asked.

He rests his hands behind him and clenches the sheets as Harry kisses him everywhere, starting from his cheeks, his chin, moving above before slowly descending on him, kissing every inch of his chest, slithering further down his belly. Tom’s breath catches in his sore throat and he has to clench his hands into fists to stop himself from grabbing onto him as Harry’s hands move to his underwear. He bows his head and, between one blink and the next, Harry is kneeling on the floor. Gulping a thrilled breath, he stares down at him with eyes wide open, barely feeling his own jaw as it sets steadily, and meets his hungry and sparkling and desirous gaze. 

Slowly, not breaking eye contact with him, Harry traces the stitching on the soft cotton with the tip of his nose only to later indecently do the same with his tongue, making Tom breathing hard and fast, heart throbbing madly in his ribs, its pulse echoing in his ears, his grip of the sheets tightening. 

He then parts his mouth, ready to call him, not ceasing to stare down at him, but a deep moan rings off his lips when Harry kisses his own hardiness, fondly and gently, and a sudden jolt runs through his own shoulders, down the full lenght of his own spine, and he can’t do nothing but to let himself be devoured, his head spinning fast as Harry runs his hands down Tom’s legs and tugs his underwear down, slowly, so slowly Tom thinks his heart might collapse any moment.

He strains his eyes to not close shut when the youngest kisses his hip-bone and he can’t hear anything else – all is there for him to hear is Harry’s quick breath, the sounds of his touch on him, the wet flicks of his tongue.

Harry’s lips move down further down, knowing Tom’s body as if it is his own, loving him in a way that fills his insides and crash them all at once, and when his mouth closes around him, taking him whole, he can’t do anything but to growl and cry out his name as though it is the only thing that could save him from losing his own mind. 

***

He is on his stomach and his face is buried in the pillows. 

He slowly hums when Harry drops a kiss on his own spine, suffusing him with warmth, and his body curls around his own while his forehead comes to rest against his own naked back, arms holding to his own sides. 

Slowly, as his senses return to him and he allows himself to enjoy the feeling brought by the younger wizard’s lips moving across him in the attempt to wake him up, his mind curls around last night’s memories: they’ve kissed and talked for hours – he has asked Harry about his school years, his friends, what is he thinking of doing next, and Harry has asked him about Greece; they’ve talked about the books they’ve read, the new spells they’ve learnt; Harry has told him the latest tell Remus has narrated him and Tom has revealed something of his training, he hasn’t been able to resist even if many things were supposed to remain in the dark; they’ve talked about the  _ Horcruxes _ , again, but it is Tom who has brought them up only to assure to him he has changed his mind about it all and has some new researches to make, and once Harry has asked him questions about it, his curiosity as sharp as a knife, he has kissed him so hard until they both forgot what they were talking about – and even though they haven’t made love, they’ve been touching and seeking each other’s pleasure to the point their bodies must have surrendered and gave themselves up because he doesn’t remember falling asleep. 

A sudden onslaught of light falls upon Tom’s lids and he blinks his eyes open.

Humming gutturally, still half-asleep, he slowly rolls over and drapes an arm over Harry – prompting him to climb atop and lay himself upon him, his chest placed over his own, their legs tangled together under the sheets as one’s nudity embraces the other’s – while scratching with the other one the soft skin behind his ear, receiving a peaceful moan as a response. 

Harry props his elbows on the pillows underneath Tom’s head and looks down at him, lips curled with the sweetest smile. Gently, he runs his fingers through the older wizard’s hair, playing with the strands curling lightly on the left temple as if he has all the time in the world – and perhaps they really do.

Tom swallows down a yawn and his face must have twisted in a comic way because an amused chuckle rings off Harry’s lips.

“How do you feel?” He asks smokinkly, very much aware of the direct contact of their naked limbs but at the same time not minding it a bit, as he places the palm of his left hand flat against the teen’s lower back.

Harry’s giggles muffle down only to graciously turn into a bright smile, a wide flash of all teeth. He cocks his head to the side and his lips come to find Tom’s jawline, kissing and feeling every muscle, every smooth and relaxed surface.

“Never been better,” He answers, voice muffled against the older wizard’s forehead as he leaves a soft kiss in the area separating one eyebrow from the other, pushing back a lock of hair from Tom’s face before tilting his own head away and seeking his charcoal eyes with his own. “How do you feel?”

Tom’s lips depart promptly. He lifts his head and, as his hands wrap lightly around Harry’s waist, bites fondly his chin, prompting him to wince amusingly the moment his own teeth sink down his warm skin. He then moves to his neck, leaving wet kisses on the way down, caressing with his own open mouth the marks he himself has left on him last night. 

“I’ve never slept this good,” Tom admits, a silver truth creeping into his hoarse-morning voice, as his head falls back on the pillow and Harry bows down, grabbing his own left lobe between his teeth and tongue, sending pleasant jolts down his own spine.

Music and laughter spill out through the open window of their bedroom, coming from the garden. He recognizes Remus’s and Sirius’s voices quickly, but there is someone else’s, too – yet he doesn’t have much time to work his mind about it, because Harry’s breath in his ear claims all of his attention.

“We’ve missed breakfast, Tom. It’s almost noon.” 

A quiet hums escapes his own lips and – after Harry’s tongue has flicked upon the edges of his own ear, tracing each little curve – Tom rolls up, swift like a predatory snake, and slides the teen under him, making him gasp with mirthed surprise.

“Are you hungry?”

A cheeky smile twists the corner of Harry’s mouth, a languid sparkle burning in his irises. In a heartbeat the teen’s hands reach up, cupping the older wizard’s face and drawing him in down for a soft kiss.

“I’m starving,” Harry whispers, words drifting off between one kiss and the next, and spreads his legs wider before wrapping them around Tom’s hips, hands travelling down his naked chest. “But they will soon call us for lunch, so we might as well have something else as we wait, can’t we?” 

A sly smirk flickers the corner of Tom’s lips as he crooks down on him, accepting his invitation without having him repeating himself twice. 

***

Harry enters the bathroom, not having bothered to knock nor to ask if Tom is dressed, and closes the door behind him, resting his back against it: his hair is still damp from the shower, drops of water are drying on his temples, and he must have used Tom’s soap because the smell of fresh mint wafts over him. 

“Do you think Remus and Sirius know?” He asks, his voice deeper and hoarser than usual; a natural consequence of their late night and early morning new activities. “About us, I mean. About this.”

Tom, standing in front of the mirror while placing a  _ glamour charm  _ upon the now-bruised love bites Harry himself has left on him barely an hour ago, snaps his head toward the door so fast his neck crunches. 

“Would you mind if they did?”

Harry’s eyes widen behind his crooked glasses. He cocks his head to one side and shoots him a startled look, crossing his arms upon his chest; and only as he does so, the oldest notices that Harry is wearing one of his own shirts, the same one he has worn the other day when he has had his hair cut by him. 

“No, not at all,” He utters solemnly, meeting Tom’s penetrating gaze with ho shame nor sheepiness, but with a fierce boldness. “But shouldn’t we tell them, eventually? I don’t want them to find out on their own.”

Tom nods and something in his heart twists and dissolves away, like a knot he hasn’t realized it has been seizing him this whole time. Without looking away, he pats the edge of the wash-basin with his palm and Harry strolls toward him, hoisting himself and sitting on the sink just like he has done the other day, spreading his legs to allow the oldest to place himself between them.

Slowly, attentive and fond, he caresses the sides of his thighs, stooping slightly to run the tip of his nose along Harry’s forehead, skimming his scar.

“I have an idea.”

The resolution in Harry’s face softens and his face brightens, something akin to expectation lightening his eyes, making them sparkling as Harry lifts his own hands, the palms finding a home upon the older wizard’s chest.

“Tell me.”

Tom’s voice is rich and raw, still sore from last night, but it leaves his mouth firmly and steadily – he doesn’t even have to gather his thoughts, everything comes out so naturally he doesn’t have to think about what words to choose.

“I will look for a place, my own place, once I’ll be back in London.”

Harry’s breath catches and one of his hands drifts up Tom’s own side, caressing his neck, his cheek, before lovingly stroking his hair, careful enough not to dishevel it. 

“When are you coming back?”

“Soon,” Tom answers as his own fingers reach the back of the younger wizard’s knees, tightening there. “Probably next year.”

Harry leans in, lifting his chin enough to shoot him a gaze full of a yearning hope, and the oldest has to bite his own tongue to fight the sudden urge to seal his lips with an urgent kiss.

“Really?”

Tom nods, forcing his face to remain calm and placid. 

“And I’ve been thinking–” But his voice drifts off the moment Harry uses the palms of his own hands to scoot himself closer before clasping them behind his neck as he catches Tom’s lower-lip with his own teeth, sucking it slowly, softly, smiling when a rough noise arise from the older wizard’s throat.

The teen tilts his head away, then, and drifts his hands down Tom’s lower back, pulling him closer, gently, not allowing him to withdraw; his eyes shining with the same absorbing light of a falling star, a consuming passion. 

“What have you been thinking?”

Tom feels himself flaming, his heart wincing – he feels weak and invincible all at once, lost and yet found in the tide of emotions tying him to the other wizard, and his own shoulders loosen as he cups Harry’s cheeks with his hands. 

He presses his forehead against Harry’s, quivering slightly as a new wave of jolts runs down his spine, and asks, in a single breath: “Do you want to come with me?”

The youngest startles so quickly his shoulders shiver and his neck stretches as Tom’s words almost throw him off the sink. He tosses his head further away, pushing himself out of Tom’s hold, almost crashing it against the mirror behind him, and glances up at him while yanking abruptly the front of his shirt. 

“Wait,” Harry wobbles, his eyes widening as if he can’t believe what he has heard and the words shape themselves around his heaving breaths. “You want to live together? Just the two of us?”

Tom’s heart thuds heavily and he can’t help but inhale deeply, his nostrils flaring as he does. His jaw clenches tight and he promptly and yet loosely brushes the back of Harry’s hands with his own palms. 

“Yes,” He whispers, steadying his voice as he gives a single and resolute nod in affirmation. Without thinking, knowing him well enough to be scared to have said something inappropriate, he shoves himself down on him, skimming the tip of his nose with his own. “If you accept, we can move out of here together at the end of your seventh year. This way you can focus on your studies and we will have plenty of time to speak with Remus and Sirius about–”

But Harry laughs with the most beaming sound Tom has ever heard and his heart burns with mirth. He peers down at him, feeling his own cheeks heating up, and the youngest looks heavenward – his breath crumbling against Harry’s lips as the teen grabs his fingers with his own, lacing them together.

“Of course I accept!” He yelps, his voice cracked with giggles. He tilts their tangled hands up and kisses vehemently each of Tom’s knuckles, unable to muffle his heartbreaking laughter. “Merlin!,  _ Tom Marvolo Riddle _ , you’ve sounded so serious for a moment I’ve thought that you were about to propose.”

Amusement must have crossed his own features, because Harry’s laughter grows richer and louder and his hold on their clasped hands tightens fondly.

_ “Harry James Potter,” _ He whispers hoarsely, not bothering to keep the emotion from his own voice as Harry wraps his legs around his own waist to pull him closer and shoots him a watery look that has always held the power to remind him what it is to fully live. “This life is worth nothing if I can’t spend it with you.”

His own hands slide against Harry’s cheeks, then, and the youngest’s breath hitches as he stoops down on him and their lips brush against one another. 

_ He lets himself long and loves, he hangs tight and holds on, because the flames are now his home and they welcome him like an old friend. _

  
  


**~~~~~~~**

  
  
  


**OCTOBER, 1944** . 

  
  


These past three years have collapsed upon him like a waterfall the moment he has met Harry’s eyes in Dumbledore’s office: when he has seen him his own mind has overflown with warm memories and dozen of questions, with grains of fear even if he wasn’t scared at all, choices unmade, words unspoken and an impatient urge to scream them all from the top of his lungs. 

Many things have changed and yet everything remained the same as it has always been – because no matter the time that has passed, even now, with Harry sitting barely meters away from him, his hair as tousled and wild as they have always been, his emerald eyes look up at him as if he can pierce through his own soul, reach his own very core with no effort, and Tom himself can’t do nothing but to let him in; eyes that seem to know too much, too well, always so deliciously expressive, eyes that are surprised but not scared, hopeful but not delusional, and bright, so bright, they might as well set a fire in the room.

He takes a sharp intake of breath and collects himself, caughting his hands behind his back; the fingers of his left wrapped around his wand. 

“We will be practising elemental magic until the end of this term.”

There are a few muffled winces, some unblinking eyes, and a lot of startled gazes. Suddenly, then, someone raises their hand and Tom, standing in front of all students, forces himself to remain still as his attention shifts to the side.

It’s the  _ Weasley-boy, _ Harry’s best friend. The two young wizards are sitting together, their shirt-sleeves folded, pushed up past their elbows, and before raising his hand up he has exchanged a gingerly look with his housemate.

Tom nods in their direction, his charcoal eyes unyielding, as if to allow the ginger boy to speak, and has to bite a grin when a lovely soft-pink blooms on Harry’s cheeks as he averts his own gaze somewhere else in the room. 

“Elemental magic, sir?” Weasley asks, sucking and swallowing a trembling breath as if he is struggling to keep his voice steady, blinking so fast to lock his astonishment away but his emotions seem to get the better of him without him noticing. “Isn’t that supposed to be higher-lever magic?”

An amused smile flickers the corners of Tom’s mouth as he glances down and studies his student’s face, analyzing him slowly, patiently. He, too, has changed: he is no longer the shy and bigot kid Tom remembers him to be, he now holds the loyal and brave will-force typical of that of a Gryffindor. 

“You see, Ron Weasley,” He utters solemnly, with no hesitation, as he leisurely strolls toward their desk. Harry’s head has snapped in his direction soon as he has taken the first step and his wary eyes now inspect him silently, his chest rising and falling quickly beneath his robes. “I believe all limits of both our magic and mind to be self-imposed.”

Once he comes to stand in front of the two wizard’s table, he peers down at Ron and stares at him until the boy is blushing and decides to turn his head to the side, seeking Harry’s eyes as if to be assured about what to do next. 

“Magic is a living, breathing entity,” He says again, this time louder for all other students to hear, and he feels frantic eyes fixed on his own face and back, coming from all directions, and yet the ones with the power to make him shiver are those feral green irises he finds himself raptured by because Harry stares up at him, intensively and resolutely, drinking each of Tom’s words in, and he feels his own legs anchored to the ground beneath him, unable to look away. 

“It is in our bones and flows in our blood. Our wands are made to simply test our ability to channel it, to guide it, but real power is all around and within us.”

Hermione, sitting on a desk behind Harry’s and Ron’s, grips her own shoulders. Yet even her eyes, slightly akin to Harry’s, hold a bubbling resolution – like those of a fox wearing itself out to study what bunch of sour grapes should be avoided. 

“Like all forces of Nature, Magic is, too, neither good nor bad,” He says, this time slightly softening his own voice. “It morphs and shapes itself so based on the wizard’s intentions, his desires and emotions.”

A heavy silence falls, then, engulfing the whole classroom. Tom straightens as he walks past Harry’s and Ron’s table, strolling back to his own desk, and once he brings himself to face the students, he takes his time to peer individually at each single one of them: Draco keeps his head bowed, averting his own stare, as pale as a ghost; a few other Slytherin’s girls cover their mouth with their hands and stare back stonily at him, fascinated and yet still timoroused; a few more Gryffindor’s boys refuse to meet his charcoal eyes and stare, unblinking, at his own feet. 

He sighs quietly, silently, breaking his own composure to tilt his left hand up his head, massaging softly his temple with the tip of his wand while wrapping the palm of his other hand around his left bicep. He glances at Harry, quick enough to spot the heartening of his sparkling irises, and tries to remember his own school years – for the youngest ones, he reminds himself, actions are worth much more than empty words. 

_ Perhaps a demonstration, then. _

Tom clears his throat and, without a second thought, raises his wand-hand in midair, silent but firm, finally alluring the attention of all students. 

His body and bones heat suddenly up as the heart starts to throb faster, allowing the blood to travel viciously and untamed in his veins. 

“Water, the element of change,” He utters and cuts the midair with a smooth and yet sharp flick of the wand-hand. A jet of clean, icy-blue water flows out of his wand’s tip and, quickly, he rotates his wrist, watching the conjured water freezing up in the air above the students’ heads and turns itself into a medium-size liquid twister roaring up, close to the ceiling. 

Astonished and amazed sounds ricochet between the walls of the classroom, someone’s breath catches and someone else howls so loud Tom has to feign a cough as he strongly snaps his free fingers to call back some order, urging the young wizards and witches to pay utter attention.

“Air, our breath, the storm we can control,” With another flick of his wand, this time cutting the midair diagonally, the twister of water vanishes, promptly replaced by a swirl of gold. A powerful jolt runs his spine as he tilts his wand-hand to the side and, in a heartbeat, little thunders of light strike inside the conjured-wind whirl, spreading themselves up toward the ceiling. 

A gasping breath escapes his lips but he tightens gently the grip on his wand and strains himself to remain impassible. His right fist clenches as his left arm cramps slightly but magic is crawling out of his skin, fiercely and powerful.

“Earth, our body, our roots,” He breathes deeply and as the summoned vortex of lightning and dust dissolves itself in the air, he taps his left heel on the ground and the classroom’s floor, as well as the walls and windows, begins to shake with seismic waves. 

A few students scream as they stand up arbuntly and jump on their chairs, some of them even try to hide beneath the tables, hands clenched around either their legs or knees. Tom doesn’t hide a delighted smirk when he cocks his head to the side, meeting Harry’s penetrating stare: unlike his peers, he is the only one who has remained composed – even though his eyes are burning with an hectic awe, a mix of both terror and jealousy, of marvel and amazement – seated on his chair with his legs crossed at the ankles beneath it, arms laid upon the table to keep it from quivering. 

He gives another light tap to the ground, this time with the whole palm of his left foot, and the shakes gradually morph into aftershocks of weaker magnitude until they softly cease to exist and once that happens, all students are gasping, their mouths wide open and their cheeks are flushed red. 

Their restless eyes don’t stop shifting from one side of the room to the other, as if wondering what can possibly come next.

Tom swallows an inhale of breath and his heart thummers in his ribs, making him wonder if Harry can hear it echoing in his own ears, if his magic is feeling as imperishable and sempiternal as Tom’s own.

Slowly, very slowly, looking at no one else but the Gryffindor, feeling the past and the present knocking into one another without trying to devour the other, Tom clenches the wand in his left hand. 

“And Fire, the spark that ignites our spirit,” He whispers, hoarsely, before pointing the tip of his wand up to the ceiling and slithering it down with a quick and firm motion, a net strike. In a heartbeat, orange and red hues of flames spike into existence, blessing and yet annihilating, roaring and concentrating all around him, forming a circled-blazing shield, and Harry’s eyes widen with unshelved surprise as he jerks himself up, getting on his feet, prompting the chair to fall backward and crash against the floor. 

He stretches his own neck and locks Harry’s stained gaze with his own, drinking in his wheezing inhalations, his aghased look – the Gryffindor blinks, and blinks, and blinks again, unable to look away, unable to compose himself.

Finally, Tom tilts his wand up and nods over his shoulder and with another blink of Harry’s green and watery eyes, the blaze is gone and he breaks eye contact with the Gryffindor, turning his own attention to the other students as he claps his hands behind his back, recollecting quickly himself.

No one is breathing, not intentionally, at least: every student, either Gryffindor or Slytherin that is, is holding on their breaths, frozen in place, thunderstruck, eyes wide open with a bemused and stunned daze.

He smiles openly, a proud flash of teeth. 

“So,” He urges, huskily and smokingly. Harry’s hands close into fists in an attempt to keep him together, to prevent him from losing it all, and Tom can’t help but to grin. “With which element would you all like to start off with?”

  
  


***

  
  


“Harry. A word, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The Gryffindor’s eyes widen behind his glasses, unable to hide his surprise as he freezes to the spot, hands closed tight into fists. Slowly, as if scared to give himself away with the slightest movement, he turns his head to the side and nods when meeting Ron’s and Hermione’s observant stares. 

“I’ll see you at lunch,” He promises – his voice low, wobbling with strong emotions – as the ginger boy runs a hand through the hair at the back of his nape and the witch shoots Tom an inquisitive look before gently and yet demandingly tugs Ron’s sleeve, as if to urge him to make their way out. 

“Ron,” She calls him, her voice lightly thoughtful, and the Weasly sighs quietly, his cheeks flushing with the same color of a fresh rose-petal. 

Tom’s knees buckle with anticipation the moment Harry turns his head once more and meets his stare with his own. 

They both don’t move, they barely even manage to keep their breathes steady while waiting for all students to leave the classroom – and once that the sound of the door closing ricochets between the walls, Harry takes a few careful steps toward him, slipping the slip bag off his right shoulder and drapes it over a table, wand hanging off the left pocket of his wool trousers. 

He is biting his lower-lip as if to strain himself, but when he finally lifts his chin and looks up at Tom, the corners of his mouth flicker in a fond smile. 

“Megalomaniac,” He hisses, softly, glaring at him. 

“Oh, but don’t you love it?” The oldest gasps, feign stupor as he places the palm of his left hand flat upon his own chest.

Harry’s smile grows bigger for a moment, then it fades away and his expression becomes suddenly ardent. And Tom waits, stares, not deign to move, curious and yet anxious, eager to learn what more of him has changed.

“Are we–” Harry shakes his head, breathing hard. “I mean, can we talk?”

The oldest raises a brow as his heart picks up quickly, jumping in his throat, and a slight smile twists on his face. “That’s what we are doing now, isn’t it?”

But Harry snorts and thrusts his hands in his pockets, giving a simple shrug.

“No, not like this,” He chides, cocking his head to one side and narrowing his eyes attentively, drinking him closely, studying Tom’s solid and steady profile, searching for nothing in particular and yet everything new is there for him to find and absorb. “I want to know what happened, why you’re doing this. I wrote to Remus and Sirius and they were as surprised as I was. You’ve said that you are going to tell me–”

“Everything you need to know,” Tom cuts him off as he strides across the room, bringing himself to stand in front of the other wizard. He then reaches up, placing his own index finger under Harry’s chin to tip his face up, slowly, enjoying the jolts that run down his own spine the moment their skins meet, taking their time to remember each other, and Harry winces at the contact, pressessing his lips tight as he tenses for just a moment before relaxing, blowing out a breath that has got caught in his throat. “Come find me tonight and we will talk.”

A silence falls between them, filled with a thin twist of excitement and anxiety.

“I won’t bite,” He adds, fighting a smile as Harry blushes and a deep crimson-red spreads all over his cheeks. “Unless you’d want me to.”

The Gryffindor glances down and laughs – mirth courses through him but he muffles it easily, as if he is trying to not surrender to him until they would have talked and cleared the air between them for once and for all – before looking at him right in the eye without tilting his own head away. 

“You’re incredible.”

“Thank you.”

Harry inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring, but the smile on his lips is soft.

“It wasn’t meant to be a compliment, you braggart.”

In the blink of the eye, Tom finds himself inundated by memories of their summers together, the terror of losing him, the joy and stun he has felt and never forgotten the first time they’ve kissed, the determination and strength with which he has been able to persist in holding on during all these years away from him, the yearning and burning desire to be back by his side, because no matter what has happened, no matter what will happen, Harry is his, and he his Harry’s, utterly and willingly, they’ve chosen one another and they will always choose one another, even if it is meant for them to fall.

Tom hums sweetly, peering down at him as his own jaw sets slightly. He drifts his hands away from Harry’s chin and slithers his own fingertips upon his left cheek, a light and mild brush, and Harry sighs so quietly Tom has to strain to hear him, has to fight the desire – not a need but a pure, consuming and jarring desire – to crooks on his lips and get drunk with the taste of it. 

“Your inappropriate use of language hasn’t changed, Harry,” He chides, his voice growing deeper as excitement flits in and out of his features, but he quickly disguises it with a calm composure and cocks his head to the side, making an effort to sound placid. “Perhaps you would like to get detention?”

The Gryffindor’s mouth falls open as he tilts his own head away and takes a step back to point a finger straight at Tom’s face in the mimic of a menacing threat. 

“Don’t you dare–”

But Tom, swallowing a tremor that goes through his dry throat, cuts him off.

“Tonight, then?”

There is a brief pause during which Harry’s emerald eyes focus on a little detail in the older wizard’s face and his own features twist with a sweet anguish. Slowly, then, as if he needs time to gather his thoughts, he takes a long inhale of breath and presses the heels of his bare hands to his eyes, crooking his glasses, before dropping his arms along his sides.

“Yes, Tom,” He utters solemnly, as if clinching a bargain. “Tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... yep, i'm miserable. i've added a few tags (like harry being a pyromancer) only because they are low-key important for the upcoming events. 
> 
> finally next chapter will only be about the present story-line (exception made for a very little tom & dumbledore's flashback) because these two have a lot to get over with.
> 
> thank you so much y'all for your kind words and comments!!!! you've melted me, but please do feel free to criticize me anytime you want!


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